


With Kink in Mind, Part 2: Summer

by TuppingLiberty



Series: With Love in Mind [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Asexuality, Breathplay, Collars, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Intercrural Sex, Kink Negotiation, Kink Scene, Kinktober, Lingerie, M/M, Object Insertion, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Seattle, Subspace, Sugar-Daddy esque, Wax Play, distracted sex, graysexual character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-07-27 23:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16229549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: Sequel to With Love in MindNow that his first quarter of college is under his belt, Graeme feels a new stroke of confidence - which carries him to a job at one of Seattle's fanciest restaurants. But like new situations can come with new interpersonal challenges, so can new kinks come with new triggers...Written for Kinktober, updates daily.





	1. The Setup

"Tell me you get it, at least a little."

Graeme peers over the top of the heavy hardback, looking down where Alan is painting his toenails a pretty sky blue to match the cloudless sky outside. He's threaded toilet paper through Graeme's toes, and is even using a cuticle pusher dipped in nail polish remover to clean up the edges. "You've gotten surprisingly good at that," Graeme says with some surprise.

Alan grins up at him. "I'm wounded. Stop sounding so shocked. It's always easier to do it to someone else, especially when that someone is older than the twins."

"Yeah, I suppose the extra wiggling does make it harder."

"So do you get it? A little? Is it piquing your interest at all?"

Graeme glances back down at the book, letting his thumb play over the three little stars in the corner. "Yeah, I get it. It might be problematic, and JK seriously needs to remember the whole 'the author is dead' thing, but I get it. Moreover, I can totally picture nerdy teenage Alan dressing up in a black robe to go to the midnight release party at the local bookstore."

"You don't have to imagine it, Sam has actual photos. She's dressed up too, in my defense. And so is my mom. Never could get my dad into Harry Potter, for whatever reason." Alan lets out a sigh. "You know, we're going to have to get you sorted, now."

"With my attitude? I'm probably Slytherin."

"Maybe, but that just makes us good companions, because I'm a Hufflepuff. We're very good finders," he adds with a grin.

"Why do I feel like I'm missing an inside joke?"

"Oh don't worry, I'll catch you up on that, too."

"Nerd."

"Guilty."

Graeme twitches when Alan blows on his toes, which makes Alan's eyebrow pop up in an "Ohhhh, interesting" sort of way. "All done?"

"You're all set. Since you're stuck there for a bit while they dry, why don't you keep reading to me? You were just at the good part."

"I'm not saying you're lying or anything, but that's what you said about the last time I stopped."

"It's true every time. It's all good parts, even the camping bit."

"Camping bit?"

"Forget I said anything. Keep reading."

"Wait- before I forget, I thought maybe we should check in with each other on the kinktober stuff."

Alan leans forward, pressing a kiss to his knee. "I've liked everything so far. It's- it's kind of a fun, semi-scientific way to explore new stuff. And it pushes me to try new things as your Dom, and learn new skills. How do you feel?"

"Everything is new, but everything would be for me, anyway. And maybe... maybe I like the way this is controlled. It helps me not scatter to the three winds trying to figure out what I want to try, and then just getting overwhelmed. It's like just taking a bite-size at a time, rather than trying to consume the whole thing at once."

Alan holds out his hand to grasp Graeme's. "So, two or three scenes a month, from our kinktober list, in the order given. Parameters are still good for you?"

Graeme uses the hand to pull Alan on top of him, dragging him down for a kiss, toe color be damned. "Sounds perfect."


	2. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when nothing sounds appealing for a certain Kinktober day?

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Early June/ October 8

| 

~~Blood/Gore~~ | ~~Prostitution/Sex Work~~ | ~~Fisting~~ | ~~Hate-fucking/Angry Sex~~

| 

_Not going to lie — I don’t like anything about this one. Blood and fisting are on your hard no list and there’s no way I’m hate fucking you. I can’t fake that. — A_

  


_And I don’t exactly like the idea of sex work roleplay...let’s just say it’s way less glamorous than some people play it up to be. That’s cool for them, but, for me… — G_

  


_Of course, baby. I’d never presume. — A_  
  
Graeme watches as deft fingers finish laying down garnishes and clean the rim of the plate, then put it out to be served. “Order up!” His eyes follow a harried server as they take the plate from the window, walking briskly to deliver it to the table while it’s still steaming. As his eyes continue along that path, they cross over Alan’s expectant face, and Graeme blushes. 

“Sorry.” 

“I knew you’d like this place,” Alan says with a grin. “Especially with the best seats in the house.” He nods at the glass window panes that both block the kitchen from the dining area and show off the pristine chefs in their white coats and hats. Graeme and Alan have what amount to front row seats for the spectacle. 

“I do, really, it’s fascinating. I have no idea how you got reservations, I heard this place is booked out for months.” Graeme takes a sip of water, mostly to shut himself up from his excited rambling, as he watches one of the chefs flambe something, sending flames ceilingward. 

“Well, he called in a favor from an old friend.” 

Graeme almost starts at the new voice, turning and staring as a well-dressed man pulls over a third chair and sits down at their table. He’s —  _ dashing _ comes to mind first for Graeme, his black curly hair perfectly coiffed and his smile bright against his amber skin.  

Alan smiles at the newcomer, going in for a side bro-hug and tapping him on the back. “Graeme, this is one of my friends from college, Clark Zendejas, Clark, my boyfriend, Graeme Webster. Clark owns the restaurant.” 

Clark offers his hand, and Graeme shakes it, attempting to give as strong and manly a shake as he expects someone like Clark to give him. Instead, though firm, Clark’s hand feels gentle, and kind. “This is a beautiful place. Really innovative, well designed,” Graeme manages, trying to sit up straighter and act more like an adult. Alan’s friends always make him self-conscious of his age. 

“Thank you so much. We’ll be hitting our fifth anniversary in July. I think I can finally feel like we’ve made it.” Clark picks up the fancy glass carafe of water and tops off their glasses. “And besides, Alan, you know there’s always a table open for you here.” He winks conspiratorially at Graeme. “I happened to be one of Alan’s early investors. His brilliant mind made me the capital I needed to buy my own place.” 

There’s a warm way that Clark looks at Alan that Graeme surmises is the way  _ he _ looks at Alan, and Graeme idly wonders if there’s something there, in the past. Or if it’s unrequited on Clark’s part. He runs his fingers through the condensation on the water glass, pondering their relationship. 

“Okay, but any rich asshole can open a restaurant. It takes a good mind to keep it going. You deserve every congratulations you get.” Alan raises his glass in a cheers motion, and Graeme hurries to join him. “Graeme’s studying culinary arts, actually.”

Clark turns all of that charming attention on Graeme. “Oh really? What school?”

“Just a community college.” Graeme bites his tongue before he can add ‘sir’ to the end of the sentence even as Alan’s mouth turns down a little at his phrasing. Dang it. Alan hates when he sells himself short. 

“Everyone has to start somewhere.” 

“Well in that case, I think I technically started by flipping burgers at The Burger Joint.” 

Clark laughs, a full-throated sound that makes Graeme blush, unsure if he’s being laughed  _ at  _ or  _ with. _ “I did the fast-food gig in college, too. The smell, am I right?” 

“Yes, exactly!” This time, Graeme’s able to identify the laugh as good-natured, and joins him. “I just finished up my first quarter, but I’m hoping to find a summer job in the industry so my skills don’t get rusty.” 

“You should work here! We always take on a few new helpers for the summer tourist season.” 

Graeme looks over at the glass box that is the kitchen here, then at Alan and Clark’s beaming, expectant faces. His heart goes into overdrive, thinking of all of the ways this could go incredibly wrong, and then he’d ruin things between Clark and Alan. He’s paralyzed for a moment, only able to see the reasons why this might be a bad idea staring him straight in the face. And then Alan’s knee knocks against his intentionally, and he takes Graeme’s hand under the table and squeezes, and Graeme’s able to refocus. 

A summer job at one of Seattle’s most popular restaurants? How the fuck can he turn that down? “That’d be amazing,” he says on a rush of breath. 

 

“You’re working at  _ Cerulean Persimmon? _ Graeme, that’s amazing!” Krista pulls him into a hug, and he laughs, reciprocating, squeezing her tightly. “I’m so buying your yarn to celebrate.” 

He gets a hug from Angie, the yarn shop clerk, too. “Look at my boy, growing up!” she exclaims, smooshing his cheeks. They’ve gotten close over the last few months of Graeme regularly coming to Tuesday night knitting group. 

He goes red and bats her hands away, but secretly, he’s basking in their happiness. He really could get addicted to making people proud of him. 

“What are we looking for today, loves? I’ve got some new colorways in from Wicked City Fibres, Graeme.” 

“Okay well, Krista here is a total  _ newbie, _ but she really liked that shawl I was working on a month ago, you remember, the lace one? And twisted my arm into teaching her how to knit. So basically we need all the supplies for a beginning scarf. Oh, and Alan’s sister ordered two more hats for her friends, so I need some more of that nice soft alpaca yarn, let me pull up the colors she asked for.” 

The trio make their way around the shop, chattering happily, the pile of items Krista needs — or wants — growing rapidly on the counter. While Angie and Krista take care of payment, Graeme wanders off toward those new colorways Angie mentioned. He lets his fingers play over the skeins, pausing at a pretty gray variegation that reminds him of a stormy sky. 

_ “I could live off of watching you respond to me. How your eyes turn a dark grey, like rainstorm grey, when you’re aroused. It’s my new favorite color.” _

Graeme’s fingers twitch over the skein of gray as he recalls the words Alan had used during the mirror sex prompt. He picks it up, notes that the colorway is called  _ Shades of Gray _ and smirks. 

“That’s pretty. Matches your eyes,” Krista says at his side. “Angie’s, um, caking up my stuff? Is that the right lingo?”

“Yeah, you got it.” 

She takes his arm as they stroll along the wall, Graeme earmarking other yarns in his brain he wants to work with some day. “You know, I used to wish for some guy to sweep me off my feet and  _ Pretty Woman _ me and buy me all the yarn.” He sets the three skeins he’s gathered, along with the gray, on the counter for Angie to ring up. “I never thought it’d actually come true.” 

In reality, Graeme uses his allowance for very little. He has plenty of clothes, and shoes, and Alan set him up with school supplies. He does buy groceries out of it sometimes, if he wants to cook Alan something special, but for the most part Alan pays for those, too.

But once a month, he’ll splurge on two or three skeins from Ewe Got It!, and even then, a lot of his knitted goods get turned around into presents for people, or products he sells to Alan’s friends and family. In the end, he’s fairly sure he’s made more money off of Sam’s friends than he has actually spent on yarn. Which is honestly the kind of economic independence he could only dream of before Alan. 

“Well, I can’t think of anyone I’m happier to see be  _ Pretty Woman’d.” _ Krista nudges him with her shoulder. “You work so hard, you deserve it.” 

“So do you,” he replies, nudging her back, making her blush. “Although you can  _ Pretty Woman  _ yourself.” 

She winks. “That I can, and do, on a regular basis.”

Once they’re done with supply shopping, they nestle into a couch at a local coffee shop, sipping on iced lattes and enjoying the fresh summer breeze coming in off the Sound. Graeme gets an earful about what the kink scene’s been like recently, and he reciprocates with rather tame details about his own sex life. Though he knows Krista would never sell him out to the press, he would still hate to be overheard by some gossip blog and have Alan embarrassed. 

“We’re kind of at a loss for the next one, though. We don’t really like any of the prompts. I mean, I guess I could  _ try _ to make myself…” 

“Honey-Graeme,” Krista starts with censure in her voice. Somehow Krista is the only one he’s able to stand making a graham cracker joke out of his name. “Did you hear your wording there? You don’t  _ make _ yourself do anything in BDSM. Even if we’re talking consent play, like, you’re not  _ making _ yourself consensually non-consent, if that makes sense?” 

“Yeah, it does, actually.” 

“Ultimately, Kink is supposed to be fun, Graeme. Maybe not when your ass is getting beaten, but even then, if it’s your kink, you know? And your little challenge to yourself is supposed to be fun, too. A fun way to learn more about yourself and your sexuality and your kink and your Dom. Don’t get so bogged down in these self-imposed ‘rules’ that you lose that.” 

“Right.” Graeme chews his lip, then smiles, reaching for his phone. 

**Graeme:** Date night tonight? My treat

**Alan:** Want me to meet you somewhere?

**Graeme:** Yeah, meet me at the market at 5? I’m out with Krista right now

**Alan:** Sounds good  <3 <3 Love you

**Graeme:** Love you

“Thanks, Krista. You just gave me a brilliant idea. Okay, so— I’m going to knit the first few rows and then get you started, okay?”

 

“Oooo, what’d you get at the yarn store?” Alan immediately reaches for the paper bag containing Graeme’s yarn.

Graeme manages to snatch it away before he can peek inside. “Presents, Mr. Garry, so paws off.” 

Alan grins at him, pulling him into a hug instead. “So I get a surprise date tonight  _ and _ future surprises? What a lucky guy I am.” 

“Yes you are, and you better not forget it.” They lock hands as they stroll through Pike Place Market, letting the sounds and smells wash over them. Graeme had never been to the market before meeting Alan despite living in Seattle for years. ‘Course, he’s never been to the top of the Space Needle, either. His childhood didn’t really allow for being a tourist in the city, ever.

“So what’s the plan?” 

Graeme grins, brushing shoulders with his man. “The plan is, I have no plan.  _ We _ have no plan. We’re going to do whatever we feel like doing. No rules.” 

“Well, hmm. Whatever I feel like doing?” Alan grins, stopping them in the middle of the walkway and sweeping Graeme into his arms for a prolonged kiss. “Good idea,” he whispers against Graeme’s lips. 

They pick through craft and specialty food shops, testing bits of bread dipped in vinegar and olive oil here, or piece of chocolate there. Graeme makes Alan laugh by trying on all of the vintage cat-eye glasses at one shop. He does pick up a little rainbow pin for his school backpack though, pride bringing a blush to his cheeks. Alan finds one with the Ace flag colors for his office — “It’s small enough that probably no one will notice it, but anyone who does and who knows what it means probably won’t care,” he reasons. 

Graeme tugs on Alan’s hands when he realizes they’re walking by a soda fountain. “Ally, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” 

“Ice cream for dinner?” 

“See, I knew there was a reason I loved you.” Graeme goes up on tiptoes to brush his lips over Alan’s, then steers them inside. He taps Alan on the ass. “Go get us a table, sweetcheeks, I know your order.” 

Alan doesn’t let him go, circling an arm around his waist and pulling him in to whisper in his ear. “Someone wearing their Dom pants today?”

“Maybe. It’s fun,” Graeme adds with a wink. Alan taps  _ him _ on the ass in retaliation before going to secure them a two-top. 

Every time Graeme has been to get ice cream, or really,  _ any _ dessert with Alan, Alan always gets the chocolate-est chocolate to ever chocolate, so it’s easy to get Alan two scoops of the triple-fudge brownie. Graeme prefers fruity stuff himself, and goes with a creamsicle float, then laughs aloud at another item on the menu and orders it on impulse. 

He delivers their ice cream to the table, then comes back for the surprise, and just as he figures, gets a laugh out of Alan. “One s’more to share. I couldn’t resist.” 

Alan picks it up, a handmade marshmallow toasted to perfection melting the chocolate bar, and immediately takes a bit. “Mmm. Pretty goo’,” he mumbles with his mouth full. “But you taste better.” 

Graeme snorts as Alan offers the s’more to him, and he takes a bite. Just as yummy as it promised to be. 

They take their ice cream to go when they’re done with the s’more, walking down to Waterfront Park and lounging on some of the stairs. Someone’s playing steel drums in one direction, and guitar in the other, and they’re floating through the air and mingling together as Graeme leans into Alan’s body. 

“This was really nice, baby. Thanks for thinking of it.” 

“Hey, there’s no one I’d rather break the rules with.” 

As the sun sets over Elliott Bay, they hold hands on the steps and talk of everything and nothing. 

 

Graeme’s just buttoning up his white chef coat in the break room when Clark walks in. Graeme smiles as he pulls his hat from his locker, happy to see someone he recognizes. “Hello, Mr. Zendejas.” 

“Oh, please, just Clark.” Clark leans against the lockers, smiling at Graeme. “I told Alan I’d come check on you, though, just to be clear, he didn’t ask me to,” he clarifies. 

Graeme rolls his eyes, blushing. “I’m surprised at his restraint,” he mutters, and Clark laughs. “Um, I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Zen— Clark. This is a really good opportunity for me. I even talked to my advisor, and I’m getting credit for working here, well, I will, if I do all the paperwork and so forth. So, thank you.” He holds his hand out to shake Clark’s, and they’re mid-shake when the break room door opens. 

A stocky man who looks to be about the same age as Clark strides purposefully over to the lockers, eyeing the two of them together. Graeme immediately drops his hand, blushing again, but Clark motions the man closer. “Graeme, this is one of our brilliant sous chefs, Dan. Dan, Graeme is one of our student workers this summer. Well, I need to check that the front is ready to go, so, have a good first day, okay Graeme?” 

“Thank you, Mr. Zendejas,” Graeme stammers, unnerved by the glare Dan is giving him. 

“Call me Clark!” he calls over his shoulder, the door shutting quickly behind him. 

Graeme’s not so sure he wants to be left alone with Dan, considering the look on his face. “I’m happy to be here, sir. Um. Am I taking orders from you?” 

Dan levels him with one long, judgemental look up and down. “I learned a long time ago not to bother fraternizing with one of Clark’s summer play toys. Stay out of my way, and I won’t get you fired.” 

He brushes past Graeme and out the door, leaving Graeme blinking in confusion and anxiety. He wonders if correcting the misconception that he's Clark's...lover? Boyfriend? What does 'play toy' mean exactly? - if correcting that misconception will actually work. It's not like Graeme didn't cheat his way into this job by having friends in high places. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach.   


He struggles to get his anxiety sort of under control, turning and hurrying after Dan, nervous about being late on the first day. When he enters the huge glass box of a kitchen, the line is already going, Dan prepping a grill. Graeme immediately flushes, and walks up to — well, at this point, he’d take anyone but Dan. In this case, it’s a short woman with a dozen tattoos poking out from under the shoved up sleeves of her chef jacket. 

“You the new kid?” she calls as he walks up, though she honestly doesn’t look much older than he. 

“That’s me. Graeme. Ready to work.” 

“That’s the way I like it. Mae. I’d offer a hand, but then I’d have to wash mine again.” She looks down at the dough she’s kneading together. Graeme recognizes it immediately as a pasta dough. “I’m basically a prep chef, and you’ll work under me, okay?” 

“Okay. Sounds great. What can I do to start?” 

Mae starts rattling off a long list of tasks that keeps Graeme hopping — blessedly away from Dan — the entire evening. 


	3. Lingerie - and Alan's Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme has a surprise for Alan. :)

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Mid-June — _(Alan’s B-day!!! — G) (You’re so adorable, baby — A) /_ October 9

| 

~~Titfucking~~ | ~~Sthenolagnia (Strength/Muscles)~~ | Bondage | **Lingerie**

| 

_Remember how you said you had the praise-kink one? I got this one, baby. For your birthday. — G_

  


_*excited noise* — A_  
  
It had been playing around in his mind ever since Alan had just casually mentioned that he thought Graeme would look good in lingerie. And then Graeme had gone from playing around to googling, and then, with Alan’s birthday coming up, he’d gone from googling to ordering and _planning._

He gives himself a once over in the mirror again, then smiles to himself. _Alan’s going to freak._

 

All Alan has to go on re: Graeme’s birthday plans for him, is a not-so-mysterious series of text messages.

    **Graeme:** When you get home tonight, I want to be Baby Boy for you. Are you okay with that?   
    **Alan:** Are we just playing in the headspace, or are we going to be doing something more elaborate? I don’t want to ruin a surprise but as the Dom I should know…   
    **Graeme:** Just the headspace. I have something planned, but I’m also flexible if my Daddy gets any ideas. ;)

 

Graeme’s _never_ flirty in texts. Alan’s heart had quickened in the office, wondering what his baby boy has planned for his ‘birthday.’ In reality, Alan and Graeme had celebrated his birthday down in Kent, with the whole Garry family, as was tradition. Graeme had promised Alan a special celebration at home, though.

And tonight, apparently, is the night.

He has a hard time bantering with Hendrick on the ride home, and Hendrick seems to realize this, teasing him mercilessly about his ‘young man waiting at home.’

With a final “Go get ‘em, tiger,” from Hendrick, Alan is finally home, the minutes in the elevator seeming impossibly long. His heart stutters with excitement and anticipation as he opens the front door.

There, on the couch, facing the door, Graeme is kneeling, his legs spread a little, his mouth curving up in a smile.

“Welcome home, Daddy.”

Alan lets the door shut and leans against it, ignoring Threepio’s insistent meows. He feels like he’s just been hit in the solar plexus. “Jesus—” he chokes, eyes still on Graeme’s body.

He’s wearing an oversized lavender sweater, the hem falling mid-thigh and one shoulder exposed. The sleeves are too long, covering his hands and making sweater paws in the most adorable way imaginable. His fade is fresh; he must have gone to the barber today because it’s all styled, the waves tousled artfully over the side of his face. His eyes are a smoky purple, lashes impossibly long, the whole effect devastatingly seductive.

What makes Alan’s heart stutter, though, are the white stockings Graeme’s wearing underneath the sweater. They shape over his whole leg, making Alan want to fall to his knees and run his lips everywhere. And then Graeme smiles slyly, and lifts up the hem of his sweater with one hand, as if he’s playing peek-a-boo with Alan.

Alan’s mouth literally goes dry.

Hidden under the seductive drape of the sweater, Graeme’s wearing a mother-fucking garter belt to hold up his stockings, and the daintiest white lace panties Alan’s ever seen.

Everything about Graeme says, impossibly, innocent seductor.

His lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them, and the small action makes Alan move again, taking a shuddering step toward him.

“How do I look, Daddy?” Graeme asks coquettishly. His eyes are impossibly dark, and Alan thinks he must already be deep under, deep in the headspace. It’s easy to follow him there.

“Breathtaking, baby boy. Like Daddy’s favorite present.” He manages enough steps to bring him to Graeme, sitting down on the couch and pulling Graeme into a straddle on his lap. The silky stockings slide against his legs — it’s shorts weather in Seattle now — and the sweater rides up to give him more tantalizing glimpses of lace.

Graeme rolls his body against Alan’s, their cocks grinding against each other through all of the layers of cloth. “Mmm, Daddy’s already hard for me?” He reaches down, rubbing over Alan’s length.

“Seeing my baby boy in lace is a turn on, apparently,” Alan says with a breathless laugh.

He runs his hand around Graeme’s waist and then down over his lace-covered ass. Graeme arches into his touch, biting down on his lip. “Little lower,” he whispers.

Alan chokes on a laugh when he finds the slit. “Easy access, huh?” He widens the gap in the panties with his fingers, spreading it apart, only partially surprised but insanely pleased when he feels the plug currently holding Graeme’s ass open. “And you’re all ready for me.”

“Wet for you,” Graeme murmurs against his lips, taking a deep kiss as he grinds back against Alan’s fingers and forward against his cock.

“And what does baby want Daddy to do?”

“Fuck me, Daddy, please. I need your cock,” he whimpers.

The power Alan feels is heady, the love for Graeme grounding. “Okay, baby doll, Daddy’s going to make you feel better, isn’t he?”

Shifting for a moment, Graeme reaches between the couch cushions and fishes out the lube with a triumphant grin. “I thought we might not get as far as the bedroom.”

“Brilliant.” Alan takes the lube bottle from him and then pulls him in for a hard kiss. “So fucking brilliant, baby boy. Your fucking mind.”

He works on his zipper while Graeme grinds back on the plug, pleasuring himself. Christ, Alan’s hard enough he’s already leaking against his underwear, which is something Alan rarely experiences. So yeah, uh. Lingerie going in the yes column then.

Finally, he has his own cock free and lubed, and he slips out Graeme’s plug, thrusting two fingers in right away to check the preparation. “God, you feel so good, baby. Did such a good job getting ready for me.”

Groaning, Graeme kneels astride him, and together, they position everything correctly so he can sit back on Alan’s cock. “Ooohhhhh, Daddy,” he exhales in a long rush of breath as he slides down.

Graeme envelops him in a delicious heat that makes Alan want to drool, so he pulls Graeme to him to kiss instead. They stay like that, not moving, just making out while Alan fills Graeme, for minutes, who knows how many, before Graeme finally starts to move his hips. He’s slow, grinding in short circles, the look on his face letting Alan know that he’s working Alan’s cock over his prostate continually.

“Just like that, baby. Get yourself off on my dick, you can do it. You feel so good.”

Graeme straightens, steadying himself against Alan’s chest and really getting his hips into it. He’s a siren like this, every breath, every drop of sweat on his forehead, every goddamn curled, blackened eye lash against his cheeks seducing Alan, dragging him deeper. Alan wants nothing more than to stay like this forever, with the perfect pleasure of Graeme’s wet heat wrapped around him.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—” Graeme chants as he fucks Alan, a faster pace now. He’s a little unsteady, chasing his bliss, really working for it, and Alan helps him out, steadying Graeme’s hips with his hands, helping him roll those goddamn beautiful hips.

Suddenly Graeme squeezes around him like a vise, shuddering as he stiffens and groans. He collapses on Alan’s chest, spent, Alan’s cock still inside him, and Alan can feel a wet spot soaking through the sweater and into his t-shirt. “Did you just come untouched?”

“Panties,” Graeme gasps. “The panties felt so good on my cock, Daddy. Couldn’t help it.”

Alan grins, kissing Graeme’s forehead. “It was beautiful. No need to apologize. Are you too sensitive now?”

He watches as Graeme self-assesses, then presses a kiss to Alan’s shoulder. He shakes his head. “No, Daddy. We can keep going. Want you to come inside me. Wanna plug it all up inside me.”

“Fuck.” Alan grips Graeme’s hips tighter, then makes a split-second decision. “Down on the floor for me, baby. Hands and knees.”

Graeme is quick to comply, though he whimpers when he pushes off of Alan’s cock. He kneels on the floor, looking back over his shoulder seductively at Alan. Alan tosses him a pillow to lean on, pressing his chest down and his ass up. He can’t help but run his fingers over the exposed skin between the stockings and the panties, making Graeme shiver. Nor can he help leaning in, pressing a kiss over Graeme’s hole. Spreading the panties apart, he slips back inside Graeme with a satisfied groan.

He’s not sure where the stamina comes from, but he’s filled with this ever-burning need to get Graeme off a second time, and to that end, he grinds slowly, not the hard and fast thrusts that would surely get him off at this point. He reaches around, under the sweater, and finds where Graeme’s panties are sopping wet with his come. He rubs the lace over Graeme’s cock, listening with pleasure as Graeme wails about the oversensitivity. He doesn’t color out, though, or give a signal.

Graeme’s eyes are squeezed shut, his fists balled in the pillow Alan gave him as he meets every thrust as Alan’s equal. He long since gave up on words, letting out little cries and moans and groans as Alan fucks over his prostate again and again.

He can feel that Graeme’s hard again under his hand, and that’s when Alan lets himself loose. He pistons his hips, his balls slapping against Graeme’s lace-covered ass over and over again. Beneath him, Graeme is insensible, shoving up against Alan as best he can, the rhythm sloppy and hard and animalistic. With a cry, Alan’s teeth latch down on Graeme’s back as he empties inside him, the orgasm making his limbs shake. Beneath him, Graeme sobs, clenching down again and milking Alan’s cock. It takes everything Alan has to make sure they don’t collapse, to roll them to the side and pull a blanket down for recovery.

“Want— want my plug. Want you to plug your cum inside me,” Graeme gasps.

Groaning, Alan finds the plug on the couch, relubes it, and slips out of Graeme. Within a second, he’s pressing the plug back into Graeme, loving the wet sound it makes from the combination of his seed and the lube.

“Holll-eee fuck, Graeme.”

Graeme turns around, wrapping his arms around Alan’s body as Alan adjusts the blanket over them. He smiles, that sly smile that Alan now knows means he’s about to be blown away.

“I took pictures earlier.” His mouth slides over Alan’s, nipping at his bottom lip. “For your own personal use. Happy birthday.”

 

Later, when they’re cleaned up and in comfier clothes — not that Alan doesn’t _love_ Graeme’s outfit — Graeme curls up on his lap and they share a bowl of popcorn together, watching _The Avengers._

Alan smooths over Graeme’s still-wet-from-the-shower waves and presses a kiss to his forehead. “How was work today?”

Graeme pauses, the fingers holding a kernel of corn halfway to his mouth. “It was fine.”

Alan waits, his hand rubbing over Graeme’s back in slow, soothing motions. Graeme inspects the piece of popcorn in his hand with all the care of a jeweler making an appraisal, and Alan waits some more.

“It’s harder than I thought it would be,” Graeme finally whispers. “Keeping my shit together, I mean. The job isn’t— I mean. It’s just food prep and dishes, really, it’s not like that’s hard. It’s helping me keep up my skills. But dealing with D— with the other chefs, and the way everyone can see, and the high stakes everything seems to have… It’s hard. I feel like I’m scrabbling to hold onto my calm.”

He sounds more disappointed in himself, doubtful, than anything else, and Alan squeezes him close. He takes the popcorn kernel Graeme has been worrying between his fingers and pops it between Graeme’s lips, making Graeme smile just a little.

“What do you want to do?”

Graeme turns his head to meet his eyes. “Not quit,” he says firmly.

“So what do you — or we, or whatever — need to do to make that happen?”

Mollified that Alan only wants to support him, Graeme leans his head against Alan’s chest. “This is good. Let’s keep doing this.” He brings a piece of popcorn to Alan’s lips, returning the favor.

“Does it help to be Baby Boy when you come home?”

“Sometimes. But I know it’s hard to be Daddy all the time. I’d never ask you to.”

“I like taking care of you, Graeme. It doesn’t have to mean I’m spanking you or any of the other intense stuff.” He presses a kiss to Graeme’s hair. “Just something to think about, okay?”

“Okay.” He feeds Alan another piece of popcorn as the Hulk arrives to tear shit up onscreen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to balance story and smut with this format I've chosen for myself - my greatest hope is that you feel you're getting a balance of both, but there may be less story than you want. If so, my apologies, and think of it more as a window into their lives every couple of weeks.


	4. Chapter 4

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Early July — October 10

| 

Hair-pulling | **_Waxplay_** | ~~Micro/Macro~~ | ~~Bonds (Telepathic or Empathic)~~ _(I'm not sure if I think that would be cool or not — G)_

| 

_DADDY PLEASE???? :D — G_

  


_There’s an event on Tuesday — want to do it there? :D — A_

  


_YESSSS — G_  
  
“Graeme, I needed those onions prepped 15 minutes ago!” Dan’s voice is clipped with anger. 

“Yes, chef!” Graeme calls automatically, panic roiling in his gut. He still doesn't understand what Dan's deal is — other than the fact that he seems to have been set against Graeme since the start because of some perceived relationship with Clark. But everything he's pried out of Alan about Clark doesn't jive with that, either. So is Dan just a playground bully? And if that's the case, why can't Graeme shake his anxiety about it? Why does Dan know exactly the way to get at his self-esteem, or lack thereof, most of the time? Graeme takes a deep breath in and out, counting silently to help himself calm. 

With Independence Day on a Monday, there’s a holiday rush the weekend before, and Graeme’s been called in to work full shifts for the last five days. He’s really fucking looking forward to the kink event on Tuesday — he doesn’t work Wednesday, and Alan’s taking the day off, too. It’ll give him some time to relax and really bask in the afterglow of subspace. 

He dices quickly, throwing the onions into a pan at an even faster pace than before. He can do this, he tells his anxiety. He’s done this before, he can do this again, it’s okay. 

The positive self-talk doesn’t really help the nerves burning a hole in his stomach. He’s been here for weeks now; his heart should be used to the fast-paced environment. It should be getting better, not worse. 

_ Maybe this job isn’t what you’re cut out for. _

Panic seizes him, and he pauses his knife, trying to get a proper breath in and out. His throat closes, or feels like it does for a long enough moment that it adds to his panic, until he can force it to swallow down the saliva that’s pooling in his mouth. 

When he manages a swallow and a few quick breaths, he resumes chopping, mechanically working his way through the rest of the onions. He covers the pan and puts it in the walk-in. 

“Taking my 15, chef,” Graeme calls toward Mae, who confirms it with a nod from the head chef. They’re not crazy busy right now, so he doesn’t feel guilty as he pushes his way outside. 

It’s cool in the alley. Someone’s brought an industrial-sized bucket out to sit on for smoke breaks. Hands shaking, Graeme sits down on it and focuses on breathing, not panicking, for the next fifteen minutes. 

His alarm goes off on his phone, and he’s clocked back in with a few seconds to spare, awaiting his next orders from the Mae.

 

Alan comes to pick him up after work; he had to work the late shift today, so it’s already 11pm. In the Tesla, Alan leans over to kiss his cheek, then stays, breathing in. 

“Alan, are you  _ smelling _ me?” Graeme asks incredulously. 

“You smell really good.” 

“I smell like onions. I prepped, like, a hundred onions today. And I washed my hands a million times after, but it doesn’t go away.” 

Alan picks up one of his hands, sniffing at it, then pressing a kiss to his palm with a small shrug. “Smells good to me.” 

“Weirdo.” 

“Smartass.” 

“Nerd.”

“Augh!” Pretending to be mortally offended, Alan gasps in fake-shock and presses a hand to his heart. 

“Yeah, I really cut deep with that one,” Graeme replies sarcastically. He yawns, covering his mouth with said smelly hand. “God, sorry. Long day.” 

“Did you eat, or are you hungry? We could stop and get ramen.” 

Graeme leans his head against the headrest and lets his eyes drift closed. He hums, thinking about warm, meaty broth soothing his stomach. “Ramen sounds amazing. Please?” 

“One ramen stop, coming right up.” 

He knows Alan is worried about him, and he’s not sure how to alleviate it, except to let Alan take care of him. 

God knows he’s starved for being taken care of, anyway. Graeme feels like he’s lived under too many years of stress to worry about the possible impropriety of letting Alan take care of him. 

He feels the car stop, feels Alan slip out of the car to get the soup. He doesn’t quite remember the car ride home, though, waking when Alan’s just about to lift him into his arms. 

“No, I’m okay, I can walk up,” he mumbles, though he does let Alan pull him up out of the car. He leans on Alan’s strong body more than is probably necessary on the elevator ride up, nestling in and finding his place.  _ His _ place on Alan’s body. 

 

A few nights later, Graeme finds himself once again leaning on Alan’s support as they walk up to the yoga studio. “Are you sure you want to do this? You look exhausted.”

“Honey, all I can think about is slipping into subspace, letting you pour hot wax all over me, and then conking out for about 15 hours.” He straightens, pressing a quick kiss to Alan’s mouth. “Yes, I’m sure I want to do this.” 

Graeme’s outfit is much simpler this time, just a robe to walk around in as he’ll be playing naked. Alan’s in a pair of beat up black jeans, in case any wax gets on him. The robe feels strange against Graeme’s skin, like there’s more air than normal, because Alan spent a long time last night shaving every part of Graeme he wants to pour wax on. Graeme’s never had a large amount of body hair on his chest, stomach, and arms — at least, he hadn’t thought he had, up until they shaved it all off. He smiles, remembering the brief conversation of last night: 

_ “Imagine if we were doing this to you,” Graeme murmurs as Alan runs the razor over his stomach. _

_ “I don’t think they make enough razor heads in the world,” Alan replies with a smirk.  _

He’s not sure if he’ll keep it; it’s felt kind of alien and weird all day not to have the breeze brushing over his arm hairs, for instance. But every once and awhile if they end up really liking the wax play? Graeme can manage that. 

They don’t have a play area available to them right away, so Graeme settles down in Alan’s lap to watch some rope play. The sub is suspended from the ceiling, a beautiful shibari pattern wrapping around his skin to show off his tattoos. This is one thing Graeme has really come to enjoy watching, the absolute beauty of someone in submission. The way they give themselves over. It makes Graeme shiver.  _ He _ gets to do that. He gets to be that beautiful. 

He whispers as much to Alan when the scene is over, who smiles and kisses him on the cheek. “You’re always that beautiful.” 

“You’re biased.” 

“Guilty as charged.”  He pulls Graeme up with him, off to their area. 

They’ve asked for, and received, one of the massage tables, and Alan spreads a piece of plastic sheeting over it to catch wax. Already they’ve attracted a few observers, one of whom is Barbie, wearing the DM button. She gives Graeme a little smile and wave. 

“Can you get up on the table for me, sweetie? How does the plastic feel?”

They’d tested out the plastic before, of course, making sure that Graeme doesn’t have some type of adverse or allergic reaction. It’s not like Alan’s amazing cotton sheets at home, but Graeme has a feeling he’s going to be forgetting about the plastic soon enough anyway. And they brought a towel for Graeme’s face, so he doesn’t have to feel it right there. 

He lays on his stomach, letting his arms fall back to his sides, head facing their small audience. He wants to see it on their faces, the same thing he sees when he watches others play. He wants to know they see how good he is for Alan. 

Except, after a quick color check, the moment Alan’s hands start to sweep massage oil over his back, he lets his eyes fall closed, lets himself start to drift away. Alan is crazy good at massages, and Graeme feels like his back is made of knots from his full shift today. At least he only vaguely smells of onions. 

Alan’s fingers are warm magic on his back, soothing tension as he works the oil into Graeme’s skin. It’s for easier wax removal, and safety, some back part of Graeme’s brain knows, because Alan took him through the whole process step by step a few days ago. But right now, it’s exactly what the doctor ordered after his incredibly busy holiday weekend. 

The oil has a nice sandalwood scent, and it’s easy to slip down, let the strength of Alan’s hands and the scent and the darkness of his closed eyes lull him into subspace. A thought flits through his head that he might be drooling, but it’s soothed by remembering there’s a towel under his head. The rough texture of the terry cloth seems very, very far away. 

He feels another towel touch his skin, idly remembers Graeme saying something about making sure to wipe off any excess oil, but he’s so beyond caring. Another minute, in which he vaguely hears Alan test the wax on himself before caressing over Graeme’s shoulder. “This is our test, okay, baby? I need you to give me a color after this.” 

Graeme opens his eyes, watching Alan tip the wax play candle a foot or so above him. The liquid drips down onto his bicep, making him flinch for a second as he watches it go opaque on his skin. There’s a warm sensation, almost like being out in the sun too long, but otherwise it feels like every time they’ve played with wax before. 

“Green,” he mumbles, letting his eyes close again. 

Like with any of their play, Alan starts slowly. A few drops over his shoulders that he feels drip toward his spine. Graeme flinches a little every time, but only because of how suddenly different the sensation is. It doesn’t hurt, any more than the initial sting of dropping something into the fryer and having the oil splash on him. And even then, it’s not as intense. A nice, warm burn. 

Alan continues to move along his spine, letting little bits of wax drop at a time. Graeme kind of feels like it’s baking him from the outside in, like sitting out in the sun on the first day of spring in Seattle. Alan seems to be varying the distance he’s dripping from, because some dries quickly on his skin, and other drips flash for longer, edging toward the kind of pain Graeme feels during impact play. He especially likes the sensation on his ass, feeling it drip down his cheeks, warming as it goes. 

Alan builds layers, and it compounds the sensations. The heat builds in intensity; Graeme feels like his aura is glowing now. Any knots that existed even after Alan’s massage melt away. Hell, Graeme melts away, into the massage table, an amorphous blob of pleasure and sensation. 

“You’re so gorgeous, baby,” Alan murmurs in his ear, and Graeme glows gold, incandescent.

Alan steps away for a moment, and Graeme hears the soft little shutter sound of his phone camera go off multiple times. He shivers; he can’t wait to see the pictures later.  

He jumps at the sudden cold sensation on his back, feels Alan’s hand running through his hair and soothing him. “Going to get you cleaned up now.” 

It’s ice, Graeme distantly remembers. To solidify the wax and make it easier to pull off. That’s an interesting sensation, too, the pulling at his sensitive skin. Alan’s using a small plastic comb, and Graeme feels like every single nerve ending in his skin is overly-sensitized. He groans, suddenly feeling a rush of arousal mixing into his relaxation, into his subspace. Carefully, Alan works, and Graeme squirms under his fingers, his hardening cock pressing against the table. With a swat — effective, though light — against his ass cheek and a low command from Alan, he stops squirming, letting Alan finish. 

Next is a cold, soothing sensation as Alan begins to massage aloe into his skin. Graeme could have sworn they’re indoors, but the aloe makes his skin tingle a little, a sensation like a light breeze across his back. 

“We’re going to sit up now, baby, lean on me in case you get dizzy.” 

Alan helps him up slowly, but it doesn’t matter, he does get dizzy, and he presses his body against Alan’s, closing his eyes against the sensation. “Fuck,” he mumbles. 

“There we go. Put your arms around my neck, there we go. Good job, baby boy.” 

Graeme nudges into Alan’s neck, as if he could crawl into his boyfriend if he just tried hard enough. The dizziness passes quickly enough, and he lets Alan know, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. 

“Good, baby. Good. You’re so good for me. You did such a good job. Look how happy everyone is.” 

Graeme opens his eyes, finally looking out on their audience again. He feels that— that  _ golden glow _ inside him once more at the mix of faces — some happy, some exuding pride in him, some clenched tight as they take themselves to completion. His own cock pulses, weakly but steadily, jutting up between his legs as he’s held in Alan’s arms. It's— everything the opposite of how Dan looks at him in the kitchen, and he can't help but beam out at them.   


Alan sweeps back his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Do you want to see what you looked like?” 

Graeme nods, quiet now, feeling shy somehow. 

Alan slips his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it open, sliding over to the camera app. He thumbs through, then pulls up a picture of Graeme’s whole body. 

And that whole body goes into a blush, as Graeme realizes exactly what difference the color of wax made. Because Alan had used a white candle. Covered in white drips, Graeme looks like — 

“Sir, I look like twenty guys came on me.” His cock jumps, absurdly.

“Mmm, yeah, I don’t think a gang bang is on our list, but you do look pretty like that, don’t you.” Alan goes through more photos, close ups of the curves of Graeme’s ass, down his spine. Almost artful. 

“It’s pretty.” 

“You’re beautiful, baby boy. Everyone thought so.” 

Graeme peeks shyly out at their small audience again, then squirms. He almost groans when Alan’s hand wraps around his cock — he hadn’t even noticed Alan putting his phone away. 

“Would you like that? Would you want everyone here to come on you? Use you that way?” 

Graeme shudders, clutching at Alan’s shoulders. 

Alan taps his ass again. “C’mon, baby, fuck my hand. I know you can do it. Find your pleasure.” 

“Sir!” Graeme gasps when Alan’s hand twists around his cock. He stabilizes himself and fucks hard into the circle of Alan’s hand, mouthing over Alan’s neck. With a muffled shout, he comes, biting down, though not hard enough to draw blood. Alan’s going to have a bruise, though, a mark he put there, and and he thinks of that as he thrusts his hips forward a last few times before he collapses completely on Alan. 

Aftercare happens, Graeme knows that much. Also, at some point, he gets dressed, because he remembers wearing pants in the Lyft home. And then at some point, he gets undressed again, because when he wakes up in bed twelve hours later, he’s naked, the covers cocooned tightly around him, and he’s utterly relaxed. “Fuuuuuuh—” he says, voice a little raspy still from sleep. He considers rolling back over and falling asleep for a few more hours, but his bladder is full to the point of aching.

He did drink a lot of water during aftercare, he supposes. 

Alan must hear him padding around, because he’s in the bedroom when Graeme comes out, sitting on the side of the bed, aloe in his hand. “I just wanted to check on your skin.” 

There’s a tightness around his eyes, like he’s slightly worried, and Graeme hates to see that, especially when it involves him. “I feel really good.” 

“I still need to check—”

“No, I know.” He sits down carefully in Alan’s lap, letting Alan inspect his skin. “I just wanted you to know that. Because I thought you might be feeling like you did a bad job, and you really, really didn’t.” 

His skin doesn’t feel burnt anymore, but Alan rubs the lotion over it anyway, chewing on his lip. “I might have dropped a little when you were down for so long.” 

“I’m sorry.” Graeme leans up, brushing a tender kiss over his lips. “What do you say, you and me, we spend the rest of the day in pajamas, order take out, and binge watch Parks and Rec?” 

“I say...that sounds perfect.” Alan pulls him into his arms, disregarding the aloe, which he gets all over his t-shirt. “I love you.” 

“I love you back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to order my own Alan with oil massage, please.


	5. Object Insertion

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Mid-July/ October 11

| 

**Object Insertion** | Sounding | ~~Cross-dressing~~ | ~~Tribadism/Scissoring~~

| 

_What’s object insertion — like, I’ve had many, many objects inserted, ya know? Seems pedestrian. — G_

  


_No, normally it’s inserting an object not made for sex. Like a cucumber. — A_

  


_… — G_  
  
Graeme pauses mid-chop, looking down at the carrot. The break in sound is enough for Alan to look over at him curiously, pausing on his own pepper. “What?” 

Graeme is flushing, a little sweaty. It’s the one week a year that Seattle hits the 90s, but they’re happily ensconced with central air here in the apartment. He did just get home from a shift though, and Alan knows that a/c gives the head chef a migraine, so the rest of the kitchen forgoes it for his sake. No one wants to deal with Jacques when he has a migraine, this much Graeme has told him many, many times already this summer. Combine that with the fact that everyone in Seattle is currently seeking air conditioned places, like, say, a restaurant, so they’ve been busy as hell, and Graeme has been looking dead on his feet. 

Not now, though. Right now he looks embarrassed. 

Graeme looks back down at the carrot he’s chopping, then back up at Alan, stifling a small laugh. “It’s the prompt.” 

It takes Alan a second to remember what’s coming up next. “Object insertion?” 

“Yeah, like. I was just thinking...about this carrot.” 

“You want me to fuck you with the carrot? I’m game for whatever.” Alan gives a little shrug, meaning it.   


This time Graeme does laugh. “No, no. Well, I mean. Add it to the list, I guess. But that’s the problem. I didn’t— I wasn’t  _ adventurous _ before you. Like. I had trusty ol’ Silver,” he says, referring to his old vibrator, “But I wasn’t using, like, kitchen utensils or whatever up there. And now… now I swear to God, everything is viable. Like a carrot. Or today at work, I realized that there’s this ladle — a ladle! — that has this perfectly smooth wooden handle that your hand grips really easily. It’s a work of art. And that work of art could be in my ass.” 

Alan laughs at his incredulous tone. “Well, I strongly advise against stealing from work, but I’m sure we could find a good dupe.” 

“The point being, everything I look at now could go in my ass. I don’t know if I like being opened up to this world of possibilities.” 

“I mean, not everything,” Alan counters, holding up his chopping knife with a brow.

“Point. I’m not sticking that up there.” Sighing to vent a little frustration, he resumes chopping the carrot. “It just feels weird, bringing food to bed.” 

“It doesn’t have to be food.” With a small smile to himself, Alan grabs something from the utensils jar and presses in behind Graeme, speaking directly in his ear. “And it doesn’t have to be in bed.” 

He can tell he caught Graeme off guard by the way he jumps a little. For safety, Alan reaches around Graeme and makes sure Graeme has set the knife down in a safe place. Smiling still, he pokes his chosen utensil softly in the Graeme’s ass. “Did you finish those onions for me, Graeme?” he whispers, voice all low and sexy. 

Graeme’s cheek immediately flushes beneath his. “Yes, sir,” he says a little breathlessly, but his patented Graeme Sarcastic Tone is back soon. “Is that a carrot in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” He laughs. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

Alan wraps a hand possessively around Graeme’s waist, nipping at his ear a little, appreciative at how quickly he slipped into character. “It just so happens I  _ am _ happy to see you, Graeme, but it’s not a carrot.” 

Graeme’s hands brace on the edge of the counter. “Oh? Sir?” 

He runs the spoon up Graeme’s spine, watching him squirm, then brings it around to show him. It’s not a spoon for play — although it might be consigned to that fate after this — but it’s nice and smooth, solid, a thick handle and a wide, flat bowl for testing sauce, or...

He leans closely to Graeme’s ear. “I want to spank you, and then fuck you over this counter. Color?” 

“Green,” Graeme whimpers.  _ “Christ, _ sir.” 

“You work so hard in my kitchen, I think you deserve a reward.” 

“I’m not being punished?” 

“Do you need to be punished, baby?”

“I— I didn’t actually finish the onions for you, sir.” Graeme looks over his shoulder coquettishly, and it’s all Alan can do not to devour him whole. He’s never met another person that lights a fire under his skin the way Graeme does. 

And yes, he's very happy to play along. “Oh, yes, that is a transgression. What were you doing instead? What could be so important you’re wasting my money with your hours?” 

Graeme’s voice goes breathy again. “I can’t help it, sir! Hearing you order everyone around in the kitchen makes me so hard.” 

Alan reaches down to Graeme’s cock, pushing against his pants. “Naughty boy. Did you come?” 

Graeme shakes his head. “Just— just had to touch myself for a second, I promise.” 

“I get to make you come, and no one else,” he replies sternly. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“How many do you think you should get with the spoon?” 

“Wh—whatever you think is fair, sir.” 

“Good answer.” Alan’s lips ghost over the nape of Graeme’s neck. “Let’s get you warmed up first and see, hmm?” 

He pushes against Graeme’s back, forcing him to bend over the island at the same time that he makes sure that anything that could hurt Graeme is moved far away. He curves his palm over Graeme’s cute little ass, warming it through the fabric. He waits for Graeme’s next breath, the slight relaxation of his body, then slaps his cheek, rubbing over after to soothe the hit. 

Graeme sends a smirk over his shoulder, a challenging brow like, ‘That all you got, old man?’

Alan would be hard pressed to answer which iteration of Graeme’s play role he likes best: sweet baby boy Graeme, or naughty brat Graeme. The true answer is he just likes Graeme in all his iterations. 

Alan swats him again, slowly warming him up so he can use the spoon on him. He knows he’s getting close when the fifth hit makes Graeme shudder, leaning back into Alan’s hand as he soothes. 

“Color?”

“Still green.”

“All right, count them out for me.” 

Graeme squirms, gripping the edge of the counter. At the first impact, his breath shudders out. “One.” 

“Good job, baby boy. Taking your punishment so well. Who gets you off?” 

“You do sir—” Graeme gasps a breath at the second hit. “Two!” 

“Perfect answer.” He leans into Graeme’s body, running a hand through his hair and pulling to arch Graeme’s back. “Look,” he says, turning Graeme’s head to the reflection of them in the glass oven door. “Look out the glass window. They’re all watching me discipline you.” 

Graeme moans, eyes glassy. “Please, sir—” Another hit, and Graeme’s body shakes. “Three!” 

He closes his eyes against the reflection, but Alan doesn’t want to give that line up. “Do you like when they watch? Are you that naughty?” 

“Yes! Four! Oh god.” Graeme collapses a little, letting his elbows come down to the counter, resting his head. His ass is still presented for Alan, though, and he doesn’t color out. 

Alan takes him up to eight, judging Graeme is ready by the fact that his knees are shaking and his voice weak. 

“Such a good boy for me. So good, baby, so good. Took your punishment so well. All is forgiven. Do you want my help getting off now?” 

“Please, yes, please, Daddy,” Graeme sobs, apparently deep enough to forget the current role play and reverting back to what he knows best. 

Alan grabs the olive oil from the stove, setting it within Graeme’s sight so he whimpers. He eases Graeme’s jeans down over his abused ass, a pretty bright pink that pleases him. Graeme will be sore for a little while after, but there will be no bruising. He parts Graeme’s legs a little, spreading him open as he continues to rain praise down on Graeme. 

His first finger in slips easily to the knuckle — they’ve been active enough recently that Graeme’s still relaxed, still stretched a little. Graeme hums, leaning into Alan’s touch. “That’s right, baby, just feel. Just feel good now.” 

Graeme’s eyes slip closed again, and he lets his head rest down, making soft noises as Alan stretches him with first one, then two fingers. While he fucks Graeme in a slow, languid rhythm, he doubles checks that the spoon’s handle is smooth and won’t splinter. Satisfied, he oils it up and slides it inside. 

It doesn’t have the girth of even Alan’s cock, but Graeme moans anyway at the different texture. And, Alan realizes, using the bowl as his handle, he’s able to more easily manipulate it inside Graeme until he’s centered directly on Graeme’s prostate. The steady rocking over the sensitive area makes Graeme start to go crazy underneath him. 

Graeme pushes back against it, trying to take it deeper, trying to get off, and Alan slaps his ass, lightly, in encouragement. “That’s it, baby, fuck me.” 

With his free hand, he reaches around and wraps his fingers around Graeme’s cock, stroking when he moves the handle inside Graeme. It’s barely any time before Graeme’s groaning, a full body shudder as he paints the cabinets below with his cum. He collapses onto his hands again, his knees buckling, and Alan moves swiftly to tug him up into his arms. He kisses Graeme’s sweaty forehead as he walks them over to the couch, grabbing a kitchen towel along the way. “Color? How are you doing, buddy?” 

“Mmm, green. That was fun.” Graeme grins at him, nuzzling into his neck. 

“Okay, well, can you clean your cock for me before I set you down? I’ll get your ass.” 

“Such a romantic,” Graeme teases, taking the towel and complying. 

True to his word, Alan eases Graeme down onto the couch, ass up, and wipes the excess oil away. “I’ll be right back with the balm, okay Graeme? You good here?” 

Graeme gives him a happy, fucked-out grin and a thumbs-up. “All good, Daddio.” 

It makes Alan chuckle on his way back to the bedroom. He fishes the lotion out of his supplies, returning to rub it lovingly into Graeme’s abused skin. When he’s done, he sets the TV on rain sounds and strokes through Graeme’s hair. “I’m going to clean up the kitchen, and then finish dinner, okay sweetie?” 

Graeme opens his eyes, pulling Alan in for an extended kiss. “Or you could come cuddle with me.” 

Alan knows this is Graeme trying to make sure he’s not experiencing top drop, but it’s not hard to acquiesce anyway. “Okay, let me go clean up the cum, though, or that’s going to be miserable to clean later. And then I’ll be right back.” 

“Good. ‘Cause you deserve cuddles. All the cuddles. I’m going to cuddle you so fuckin’ good.” 

And he does, Alan surmises, when he’s done cleaning. He slips under Graeme, letting Graeme weigh him down like a weighted blanket and whisper how much he loves Alan over and over as the fake rain continues to pour. 

 

Over dinner, though, Graeme seems to have slipped back into a contemplative mood. They plate the stir fry together, Alan drowning his in sriracha because he’ll always be a basic bitch, and proud of it. They eat on the couch, cuddling in together as they spear carrots and snap peas and chunks of chicken in teriyaki sauce. After, Graeme is unconsciously giving Alan a hand massage, working between the fingers and pressing into his palm, when he surprises Alan with what he has, apparently, been thinking about. 

“What’s between you and Clark? Did you guys used to date? He’s not your awful ex, is he? I can just see you being that chummy with your awful ex.” 

Alan blinks, trying to track the line of thinking for a moment. “No, he’s not the awful ex.” 

“But he’s  _ an _ ex, isn’t he?” 

“Kind of. We used to play together, sometimes.” 

“He subbed for you?” 

“No, we Dommed others together. I learned a lot from him, actually. I’ve observed him a lot.” 

Graeme hums thoughtfully. 

“Are you… are you worried? About ...me being friends with him?” 

“What? No. I mean, you’re friends with Krista, too, and you’ve played with her.” Graeme leans forward, brushing his lips over Alan’s. “I am glad he’s not a sub, though.  _ I’m  _ your sub.” 

“Yes, you very much are.” 

Graeme’s frowning, though. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Just— do you ever regret being with someone young? I’m— I mean. Clark would be so age appropriate, and...I don’t know,” he finishes slowly, sounding unsure. 

Alan wonders idly if someone’s said something to Graeme, and if so, who and what. “No, baby, I don’t ever regret you, not at all. Do you regret being with an older man?” 

“What? Why would I regret that? Who would regret that?” 

“Well, I don’t exactly have the energy to go out and party anymore, like you could be doing. I’m not going to understand probably half of your references. I’m already going grey.” 

Graeme sweeps his fingers through Alan’s sandy hair. “Like, you have one grey hair. And it might just be a trick of the light. And I don’t want to party. And I don’t understand half of your references, either.” 

“Well, sounds like we’re perfect for each other, then,” Alan replies with a grin. 

Graeme smiles, poking him in the stomach playfully. “Okay, I guess you have me there.”

“I kind of can’t believe I’m asking this, because I know him so well, but is Clark doing something inappropriate at work?” 

“Oh! No! No, not at all. I just got that vibe from you two when we ate there.” 

Alan eyes Graeme, feeling like he’s not being told the whole truth. But Graeme doesn’t seem distressed, and everyone, after all, is allowed secrets. Graeme tells him a lot, but he’s not going to start being one of those boyfriends that demands Graeme tell him everything. 

“Well, good. And yeah. More...kink colleagues, I think, than lovers. And college friends, of course.” 

Graeme laughs a little. “Kink colleagues. I like how that sounds. I’m telling Krista that’s her title from now on.” He spears a bite of veggies and chicken, sweeping it through the sauce, looking contemplative again. Alan, being Alan, waits him out, sees if he'll come out with it.   


When Graeme finally comes to the decision to speak, though, he surprises Alan by setting his silverware down and taking Alan's hand. "You have to promise you're not going to do anything. Or say anything to anyone else, especially Clark." 

Alan feels his brows draw together. "If something illegal happ-" 

"No, it's not anything like that. Just. I just...want to deal with it on my own, like an adult. But I don't want to bottle it up anymore, you know what I mean? I need you to be my boyfriend, not my Daddy." 

Alan leans over, brushing a kiss over his lips. "Okay. Daddy-ness on lockdown, for now."

"There's this chef at work, I don't talk about him much, but Dan?"

"I vaguely remember the name." Alan nods for Graeme to go on, chewing on his lip. 

"He's not- I mean, okay, I'm just going to say it: he's an asshole." Graeme takes a sip of water, looking away, which gives Alan the opportunity to frown. "When I first started there, he said this thing about- well, he implied that I only got the job because Clark and I are lovers, and that's like, a regular thing at the restaurant, that Clark gives his lovers jobs? But from what I know of Clark, that seems really...weird." 

"Clark's been with his partner, Istvan, for at least 8 years," Alan replies, frowning harder. "I mean, that doesn't mean that he wouldn't cheat or something. I'd have a hard time believing that about Clark, but no one really knows what goes on in any given relationship." 

Graeme nods. "That's not really- I mean, whether or not it's a thing that Clark does or has done in the past, that's not really the issue, is it? The issue is that Dan makes- he makes me feel like I _am_ some freeloading kept boy of the boss that doesn't deserve to be working there. When he first said something, I thought, 'well, he's not wrong. Just wrong older guy.'" 

"Okay, well, sure, your hiring involved some nepotism, but Clark - no, scratch that, _Jacques_ wouldn't keep you around if you weren't doing a good job." 

"Yeah?" Graeme looks insanely young and vulnerable. 

"Yeah, baby." 

Graeme nods again, seemingly to himself, trying to convince himself of Alan's words. "Just, um. Don't say anything to Clark or anyone, okay?"

Alan pulls his hand up to his lips and kisses it. "Promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I worked at a fancy restaurant in high school as a prep person and apps/desserts, and dishes. And mostly what I remember is prepping mountains of onions.


	6. Pet Play

“Wait, what’s the next one? Let me see?” Krista grabs Graeme’s phone before he can stop her, but he only puts up a token protest, anyway. Krista already knows most of what there is to know about Graeme and Alan’s sex life as his first kink colleague.

“Oooo, costumes. You and Alan wear pretty low-key gear, you know. We could take you to a shop, get you all Pleathered up. Get you a spiky black wolf collar that says DADDY on it.”

Graeme laughs, though his fingers drift over his neck. “I’m not sure spiky black is my kink look, not that I’m knocking it on anyone. More like...pastels.”

“Licking, rimming, that’s old hat for you guys at this point. What about pet play?”

“What about it?”

“I know you haven’t done it, but have you seen any at an event? I do it sometimes.”

“Wait, really?”

Krista smacks him lightly on the arm. “Don’t sound so incredulous. You remember Felicia? She’s the cutest little puppy for me sometimes.” She eyes the way Graeme’s fingers are still playing over his neck, then types something on his phone.

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Late July / October 12

| 

Licking | Pet Play | Rimming/Analingus | Costume

| 

_SOMEONE get this boy a collar — Barbie_

  


_I mean YOU Alan — Barbie_

  


_Yes’m — A_  
  
 Graeme blushes bright red when he’s finally able to steal his phone back from her.

 

“So, do you really want a collar?” Alan asks when they’re doing their nightly ritual of cuddling on the couch with tea. Graeme had taken the late shift again and he’s exhausted, but Alan’s question sends a shot of adrenaline through him.

“I’m not sure,” he says quietly. “Is that okay? To be not sure?”

“Of course it’s okay, Graeme.” Alan presses a kiss to his hair. “We’ll take action whenever you want on that front, okay?”

“Okay.” He yawns, leaning against Alan’s shoulder.

 

He’s distracted by thinking about collars at work the next day. He’s prepping onions again. He’s always prepping fucking onions, partially because he seems to be one of the few prep cooks in the kitchen that doesn’t burst into tears when an onion’s around. Although they’re far better than that night he had to juice 400 key limes. With a fork. The acid of the juice even ate through his gloves...multiple times. Since he has onions down to a routine, he lets his mind wander while his hands go on autopilot.

He’s come to learn the significance of collaring over the last few months. It’s a statement of commitment to Alan, one of which he’s not afraid. He’s a little afraid Alan will regret his choice, but it’s _Alan’s_ choice; he wears big boy pants, and he can make big boy decisions.

That’s mostly a parroting of what he and Clarissa had talked about immediately in the aftermath of him trying to break up with Alan for his own good. If Alan leaves, it will be because it’s best for Alan, and Graeme can do nothing better than make the same promise.

So no, it’s not the aspect of commitment. He relishes that, ties that bind them together. Once upon a time he’d been afraid that ties meant dependency, but he’s slowly learning — Alan, Krista, Mal, Alan’s family are all helping him learn — that ties only bind him stronger, and that’s not a bad thing.

He knows some collared subs from munches, and the thing about it is, they’re so strong. Other than the collar around their neck, and their subservience to a particular Dom, he’s met so many strong, intelligent, self-sufficient people who are collared. He can concede a certain cleverness in himself, but strong and self-sufficient certainly don’t describe him. He was barely surviving before he met Alan.

 _That’s not fair,_ his inner Clarissa chides. _You were surviving. You weren’t thriving, maybe. But you were making it work._

He sighs as he finishes the last of the onions. He wraps plastic over the top and carries them into the walk-in, still distracted by his earlier thoughts. He starts when he almost runs into Dan. “Oh, god, sorry,” he says, automatically deferring to authority.

Dan just sneers at him, pushing past him with a tray of mini key lime pies.

Despite the chill of the walk-in, Graeme’s cheeks flame red. He’d never had this type of interpersonal problem before. Normally people considered Graeme too quiet and weak to be much a threat, or at least, that’s what he’s always figured.

 _Not like they’re wrong in their assessment,_ the darker part of his brain retorts. _Why do you think you’re such a good sub?_

Graeme takes a few centering breaths, willing the thought away, trying to replace it with something positive.

 

“Maybe we should just do the rimming one and move on.” Graeme picks at a non-existent piece of grime on the island counter, and Alan’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, sweetie.”

Graeme scrubs his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know how to say what I want to say, is the problem.”

Alan leans in, rubbing over his back in a soothing motion. “Do you want to try, just to see if I can interpret it? It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

With a long sigh, Graeme picks at a bit of enchilada, not feeling very hungry. “I can’t— I look at some of the subs we know, and they’re so strong, but I’m so weak. And then I think, oh, well, of course I’m the sub, I’m the twink.”

Alan frowns, setting down his fork. “Can I offer a rebuttal?” he asks tentatively. Graeme appreciates him asking, he truly does, so he gives a little nod of assent. “One, you’re not weak. You look at those strong subs, maybe you’re not seeing what you have in common with them, and that’s that they’re strong. It takes _strength_ to withstand, tolerate, hell, _find joy_ in the acts a sub does. Second, about being a twink…” Alan trails off, playing with the hair on his arm. “I’m doing my stereotype a lot of justice, too. It’s not a bad thing, is it?”

“Of course not,” Graeme says very reluctantly, because he knows exactly where Alan is going.

Alan cups his face, stroking his thumb over Graeme’s cheek. “In a million ways, though, neither of us, or anyone in the whole fucking world, really, are _just_ a bear or a twink, okay? You’re a complex person, Graeme. Don’t reduce yourself. Don’t let anyone reduce you.”

Graeme lets his eyes slip closed, thinking of Dan the Bully. He feels Alan press a kiss to his forehead, then move away. When he opens his eyes again, Alan is placing a small box on the counter by Graeme’s basically untouched dinner plate.

“As per orders,” Alan says with a small grin.

Graeme lifts the lid, giving a little intake of breath when he sees the collar. It’s a simple design, very much a straightforward pet collar, sized up for a human, no bells or whistles (literally or figuratively). His fingers brush over the material. “Orange?”

“It reminded me of that yarn you made yourself a scarf from.”

“I really like it.”

“Do you want to put it on?”

It’s not an order. They’re not playing. It’s exploratory. To see if it’s comfortable, to make sure it doesn’t chafe anywhere or anything like that. He grasps the collar from the box and works the clasp. His fingers fumble when he puts it around his neck, but Alan doesn’t help him. This is about him trying it, not Alan. Finally, he finds the right amount of tightness and closes it around his neck.

It’s heavier than Graeme expected, but he thinks that might be partly psychological. His brain is giving it significance. It _is_ significant. His fingers play over it idly, as he breathes in, does his best to acclimate.

“Color?” Alan asks softly.

Graeme reaches out, taking Alan’s hand. When he finally looks up to his boyfriend’s eyes, he blinks at the emotion there. Something like pride, and desire, and the love that’s always there. Alan is giving him _eyes._ His own lashes flutter; he feels more demure in the collar. “Green.”

That earns him a little smile, and then Alan’s fingers are running over it. “I’ve never really played with collars before. It looks really, really good on you, baby.” He cups Graeme’s face tenderly, pressing their lips together. When he pulls back, Graeme’s teeth involuntarily bite down into his own lip. “This doesn’t make you weak, or strong, Graeme. It’s just part of you. A part of you that maybe you never would have discovered, and it’s okay. You would have survived without it. But now you get to explore it.”

“Because of you.” Graeme rubs his hands over Alan’s thighs, seeking comfort.

“Because I led you to sin, yeah.” Alan chuckles, and Graeme laughs along with him, pulling him into a hug.

Alan uses the momentum to pull Graeme up into his lap and press kisses all over his face, until Graeme retaliates, and they almost ending up falling off the stool. “We should relocate,” Graeme manages, out of breath with laughter.

Alan hums. “I disagree. Because good puppies finish their dinners. Can you do that for me, pup?”

Graeme looks at him with a little bit of amusement, but wrinkles his nose. “That’s not really doing anything for me, as much as I hate to say it, Daddio.”

“Oh, thank god, that felt so fucking awkward. Um. Kitten?”

Graeme looks over at the sleeping figures of Threepio and Artoo on the couch. “Ummm—”

“Yeah, no, I gotcha.” Alan taps his finger to his chin as Graeme pulls his plate over, his appetite coming back with a vengeance. “Bunny?”

Graeme nearly spits out his bit of enchilada. “Is that a thing?” he asks incredulously.

“Baby, everything’s a thing. Don’t yuck anyone’s yums.”

“Noted.” Graeme sighs around his mouthful of food, content now for whatever reason. Maybe it has something to do with the slight heaviness around his neck, the way he’s aware of the collar as he swallows. It’s not constricting anything, but it’s always present. It feels...almost like a blanket...for his neck...yeah okay, that doesn’t make sense. But it also doesn’t make sense that it feels so right, so maybe the blanket analogy is apt.

He and Alan work through some more bites of their dinner in silence before it strikes him. “What if I’m just like, your pet? Like...um. Just yours. You know what I’m getting with this?” He taps the collar. “Strong Hutt-slayer Leia vibes, know what I mean? Except like. You’re definitely not disgusting like a Hutt. Unless it’s chili night.”

He surprises Alan into a burst of laughter, which is one of his favorite things to do. Alan’s fingers reach up for his collar, tugging at it a little at the nape of Graeme’s neck, which makes him shiver. “We could do that. Please don’t strangle me, though.”

Graeme snickers, even as his pulse jumps at Alan’s continued playing with the collar. “Do you want to play now?”

Alan looks over their dishes. Graeme’s proud of himself; he managed to eat most of his dinner despite the turmoil in his stomach from the restaurant. _That’s Alan’s magic,_ he thinks, letting himself smile fondly at his boyfriend. “I think,” Alan says slowly and deliberately, “that my pet needs to go wait for me in the bedroom while I finish up out here.”

He pulls Graeme closer, a hand cupping the back of his neck, and whispers in Graeme's ear. “I want you to get as naked as you want to be, and I want you to get up on the bed, kneeling position, and practice your breathing, okay, pet?”

The orders, a mix of role play and self-care, bring a burst of warmth to Graeme’s heart. “Yes, sir,” he says demurely, bowing his head. He shivers again when Alan’s beard brushes over his cheek.

Alan lifts him off the chair, then turns him in the direction of the bedroom and lightly slaps his ass. “Get going then, pet.”

He can hear Alan clearing up the plates, but he doesn’t look over his shoulder as he goes to follow Alan’s directions. He already feels a little floaty, like the collar doesn’t quite give him enough oxygen. Deep down, he knows it’s not tight enough to do that, but it’s weight is enough on his neck to give him the illusion. It’s — somewhere in between pleasant and unpleasant, Graeme decides. He’s not sure if he would want it tighter, but then again, lack of oxygen is supposed to make the pleasure more intense, right? Something in his brain yells at him to think of something else, anything else but oxygen loss, and he pushes the thought away, focusing on Alan's orders. 

Alan said to get as naked as he wants to, and Graeme decides he wants to play into the pet thing, stripping down to nothing, then pulling on some of his lace panties. He doesn’t have an orange pair to match the collar, although he imagines that will change soon enough. So for now, he settles for a hot pink pair that look pretty against his pale skin.

Kneeling on the bed, it’s easy to let his mind drift as he breathes. He lets himself go into one of his meditative exercises, breathing in light, breathing out darkness. He imagines all the negativity that Dan throws at him daily releasing out into the atmosphere and away from his body. The light is a cleansing force, scouring out the last vestiges of the stress so that Graeme can just breathe, and kneel, and relax.

He doesn’t realize Alan has come into the room until the bed depresses to the left of him, and he opens his eyes to look up at his lovely boyfriend. Alan’s hand sweeps through his hair. “You did such a good job for me, waiting for me, pet.” He pulls Graeme to him, lingering over a kiss.

There’s something gentle in Alan’s eyes, in his touch, as he lays Graeme down on the bed, partially covering him with his body as they slide into another kiss, and another. Graeme doesn’t feel used, he feels cherished. Like he’s a beautiful piece of art that Alan gets to indulge in. It’s not rough or demanding, it’s soft, and sweet, and perfectly what Graeme needed to wash away the rest of the stress from the restaurant.

Graeme’s not sure how long they lay like that, tender kiss bleeding into a brush of their noses, a locking of eyes, another kiss into resting their foreheads together and breathing as one.

It’s not even of consequence when Alan slides his hand down Graeme’s body. The touch is soothing, not stimulating. Loving. Alan’s love is blatant in his eyes, and Graeme hopes his is the same. Alan needs to know. Alan _deserves_ to know how well he is loved.

Even when Alan’s fingers trace over the rigid line of his cock, tucked against his thigh in the panties, even then, it’s not rushed or rough. It’s whisper touches that somehow have the same devastating effect. Graeme moans into Alan’s mouth, canting his hips a little as Alan strokes him slowly. The lace of the panties is slipping over the head of his cock, and he’s already on the fucking edge somehow. He doesn’t even know how he got here.

All it takes is Alan leaning down, sucking a mark on his neck just below the collar, which serves to remind Graeme of it; he’d somehow forgotten in the last few minutes. Alan pulls back, meeting Graeme’s eyes as he strokes him to orgasm. Graeme holds on for as long as he can, losing himself in those eyes, drowning in them. “I love you,” he chokes out, coming in his panties against his hip.

“I love you,” Alan murmurs back, his sweat pants rubbing against Graeme’s hip.

Surprised, Graeme runs his hand down Alan’s body, finds him hard. “You want me to…?”

Alan hesitates, thinking about it, bless him. It makes Graeme want to kiss him and hug him and tell him how okay it is that he’s Ace and that he’s wonderful and that he loves him, over and over again.

“You know what? Sure,” Alan finally replies, his eyes twinkling. He presses Graeme’s fingers against his cock, but Graeme has other ideas, scooting down Alan’s body and pulling the sweatpants down as he goes.

The sweetness is gone, maybe, now that Graeme’s sated. He breathes over Alan’s cock, smirking a little as he looks up. “Fuck my mouth?” he asks sweetly.

“Fuck, pet—”

With a full-on grin, he takes Alan’s cock in his mouth, swirling his tongue over the head where precum has started to accumulate. Alan’s hips stutter, and he feels Alan’s fingers in his hair, guiding.

“God, your mouth is so perfect. Baby—” Alan cuts himself off, gasping as Graeme works him. He’s getting better at deep-throating, though it still makes him nervous for some reason he can’t pinpoint, that thing about oxygen again. He’s magic with his tongue, though, or at least Alan tells him so, and he gives Alan everything he’s got.

Alan’s hand is rough in his hair, pulling a little as he comes, groaning above him. He collapses back on the bed, his spent cock falling out of Graeme’s mouth as he melts into the sheets. “Fuh,” is all he manages.

With a little giggle, Graeme crawls back up him and hugs him tightly. “Love you.” He presses the chastest kiss to Alan’s cheek, his mouth still tasting of Alan. The juxtaposition makes him laugh again.

With fumbling fingers, Alan takes the collar off and tosses it away, then begins to work the panties off Graeme. “Shower?”

“Bath?”

“Right, what was I thinking?” Alan replies with a grin, pulling Graeme up off the bed on shaky legs.


	7. Distant/Distracted Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter one today, especially the kink part, which is more of a fade-to-black - tomorrow is a doozy though!

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Early August/ October 13

| 

~~Weight Gain~~ | **Distant/Distracted Sex** | Gags | ~~Creampie~~

| 

_I have a fantasy... — G_

  


_Well, let’s hear it... — A_  
  
Alan’s having a hard time concentrating on his program, glancing over at every quiver Graeme makes. It’s not that he’s worried, or, no more worried than he always is during a scene. It’s just that Graeme is — well, fuck, he’s taken to kink like a duck to water. Sometimes Alan is swamped, overwhelmed almost with the feeling that he’s found it, he’s found  _ him, _ the one. The whole Kinktober thing, exploring themselves, it’s deepened their relationship in a way Alan never thought possible. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Graeme shivers, cock dripping pre-cum in a slow line down to seat of the wooden chair he’s tied to. 

“Color?” Alan asks casually, fighting the instinct to hop off of the treadmill and run his hands over Graeme’s body. This is what Graeme wanted to try — an approximate facsimile of cock warming that doesn’t actually involve Alan’s dick. 

Instead, Graeme’s sitting on a suction-cupped vibrator, pressing deep inside him, controlled by the remote in Alan’s pocket. 

It takes Graeme a few seconds to gather, apparently, the wherewithal to answer Alan. When he finally manages to open his eyes, they’re hazy with desire, with subspace. “Green,” he mumbles, with the tiniest sliver of a grin. 

Strange how the smallest things light up Alan’s heart. That tiny grin is one he’s going to keep in his brain forever. “Good, baby boy. Daddy has some more important work to do, so I need you to be patient a little while longer.” 

Though the role play scenario — that Alan is too busy to pay attention to his baby — had been pre-negotiated, and had, as a point of fact, been Graeme’s idea, it has taken Alan a little bit to acclimate to the idea that he’s not paying exact attention to every single little second of the scene.  _ This is Graeme’s fantasy, and you’re helping it come true. Look at how happy he is.  _

Graeme shivers again as Alan bumps up the vibration that he knows are directly sitting on Graeme’s prostate. With a cry, his stomach tenses, his cock pulsing cum all over his lap. 

Eyeing Graeme’s panting, messy body, Alan bumps the vibration down, but only by one. He intends to make Graeme come a lot more today. 

 

They spend the first part of aftercare in the shower, and then Alan wraps them both in the softest robes imaginable, pulls a blanket over them even though it’s early August and the peak of the hot weather in Seattle, and dumps them in the papasan he’d finally bought after their trip to Port Orchard earlier this year. Graeme’s still a little spacey, but he’s murmuring broken bits of love and praise in Alan’s ear easily enough.

“We should go on another getaway.” 

Graeme hums. “Kind of hard to ‘getaway’ from work, you know what I mean?” 

“One, I love you, that was the worst dad joke ever. Two, well, we can make it work with your schedule. And you have your passport now, so the world is your oyster. Where would you want to go?” 

“I mean that’s obvious,” Graeme replies with a grin. “Though not ‘til September. Vancouver, to go see the Canucks play, obviously.” 

“Oh, right, how could I not have seen that obvious answer?” Alan’s voice is dry as dust, but he pecks a kiss to Graeme’s cheek playfully. “Okay, well, how about, anywhere in the world, right now, for as big a getaway as we can manage with work.” 

“I don’t know, it’s really hard to think about being any place that’s not this papasan, wrapped up in you, with my brains properly fucked right out of my head.”

“True. I could take you to a nice B&B, where we can laze about in bed, wrapped up in each other, making sure your brains are properly fucked out again.” 

“See, now that’s better than any destination.” 

Alan chuckles in his ear. “I should take you to New York and see if you say that.” 

“Does New York have this papasan, though?” 

“I’m beginning to think this papasan is my best investment.” 

“The cats certainly love it,” Graeme says dryly, picking at a clump of hair clearly Artoo had left behind. 

“The cats have really good taste. They love us, after all.” 

Graeme laughs, snuggling further into Alan. “So very true. We have been blessed with that kitty love.” 

They lay in silence for a few moments, Alan content down to his bones. “I know work has been difficult lately. We don’t have to try and do anything, it’s okay.” 

Graeme lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s been a lot this summer, and I hate admitting that. It’s been — juggling you, and the kitchen, and exploring the kink stuff — it’s just been a lot. A lot of the stuff I want to do. Or I  _ should _ want to do, I guess.” 

Alan frowns, rubbing his thumb over Graeme’s wrist. “If you don’t want to keep doing the kink stuff, Graeme, that’s fine with me, I hope you know that.” 

“It’s not the kink stuff.” Graeme leans his chin on Alan’s chest and looks up at him, his fingers tapping on Alan’s pec. “It’s that the kink stuff takes spoons, and being in a relationship takes spoons, and being a friend takes spoons, and work takes the most spoons of all.” He traces a heart symbol over Alan’s heart. “Stuff like this, right now, though? This is regenerating spoons.” 

“Well, you know—” 

“Yeah, I do,” Graeme cuts him off, leaning up to brush their lips together. “If it becomes necessary to stop doing kinky stuff for awhile, I’ll let you know, okay?” 

Alan squeezes him more closely. “Okay. No holding back because you think it’ll make me happy, okay?” 

“Okay,” Graeme agrees easily, then sighs heavily. “I’m not sure that I’m doing the right thing here, Alan. Well, not here. At the restaurant. It’s— it’s a lot harder, emotionally, to deal with, than working at the Burger Joint was. I mean, I know it’s stupid to compare them but— But sometimes I just wonder if maybe I was better cut out to be working fast food, where I can’t ruin ingredients that cost hundreds of dollars. Where everyone’s basically on the same level.” 

“Do you still want to continue school?”

Graeme chews on his lip, picking at Alan’s robe. “Yeah. I mean, yes, I do,” he says more firmly, looking into Alan’s eyes. “I want to learn more. I just— I don’t know that a place like Cerulean Persimmon is what I want.” 

“What if we pros-cons this thing out?” Alan offers, letting his chin rest on Graeme’s hair. Graeme sighs, leaning into him. Graeme taking support from him is maybe one of the most satisfying feelings in the world. Something inside Alan exalts with contentment. 

“Okay, sure. Um. Pros. Working in a professional kitchen is a great way to experience lots of different techniques and how to use different equipment.” Alan ticks a finger up for Graeme. “Um. Two, I’m not guaranteed to ever work in as trendy a place ever again, and that’s certainly an experience.” 

“Good. Anything else?” 

“Uh...It’s at a convenient location.” 

“Okay, how about cons? We can always come back to pros if you think of more.” 

Graeme stares at the hand where Alan is holding up three fingers. “Um.” His fingers clutch at Alan’s robe. “Um, every day I work there, uh. It takes everything in my power, all of my tricks, every single thing Clarissa has taught me, not to spiral into a dozen different panic attacks.” 

He lets out a slow breath after he says it, like he’s been holding that knowledge, pent up all this time. Alan’s own breath sucks in at the way Graeme’s voice sound so  _ despondent. _ He knew it had been hard, had been stressful, but not like this. “Baby—” 

Graeme wipes furiously at a tear. “I can get through it. That’s just one con, right? Against three pluses. I can force myself through this. Sometimes you just have to get through shit, right? I mean, it wasn’t like it was easy for you, trying to break into the tech industry in a market that’s already inundated.” 

Alan frowns. He’s not  _ wrong, _ per se, but Alan doesn’t feel  _ good _ about what Graeme is saying. “Okay. You’re right. You can get through this, okay? And I’m here for support when you feel like you can’t.” 

Graeme’s entire body loosens; Alan hadn’t even realized he had gotten so tense. He opens his mouth, forcing his own jaw to loosen, too, by moving it back and forth before speaking. “You don’t think it’ll be really bad if I quit at the end of the summer though, do you?” 

Alan holds him closer. “Mmm, no, it makes perfect sense. You went in with the expectation that this was a summer job. You need to focus on your studies during the fall. Perfectly legitimate excuse. I'm sure they'll give you an excellent reference.”

Graeme yawns against his chest. “We should take a nap. I don’t give a fuck if I don’t sleep well tonight, you feel perfect.” 

A fierce sense of protection fills Alan as he drops a kiss in Graeme’s hair. “Go to sleep, baby. I’ve got you right here.” 


	8. Breath Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Graeme uses his red safeword in this, and has a PTSD-related experience trigger with something in kink. I promise he'll be fine, but if you want to skip this one, no judgement here.
> 
> Also: Graeme's father's suicide is mentioned. Not graphically, but still talked about.

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Mid-August/ October 14

| 

**Asphyxiation** | ~~Cunnilingus~~ | ~~Distention~~ | Tentacles

| 

_They make tentacle dildos, don’t they? — G_

  


_Baby, they make dildos for everything. — A_

  


_Okay, after a quick google search, yes, yes they do. Not sure how I feel about that. — G_

  


_Okay, but alternately — and we can still buy a tentacle dildo if you want — alternately, Clark is playing at the event on Saturday night and I know for a fact that he’s going to be demonstrating breathplay. I’m not well-trained in it, so it could be interesting to watch. Not sure if I want to risk your brain cells.— A_

  


_Okay well you made that sound scary. Besides, does that count? If we just watch? — G_

  


_Is…..someone besides us keeping score???? — A_  
  
Graeme checks his outfit in the mirror, mostly making sure nothing looks weird or rumpled or is put on backwards or something. The tight pastel-pink boxer briefs hug everything nicely, and the iridescent crop top Alan picked up for him someplace is shiny and exciting. He places a hand on his bare stomach, tilting his head. When he’d first started, the variety of kink styles had overwhelmed him. 

Should have just put his trust in Alan from the get-go. Alan has no sense of fashion for himself, but he definitely knows what looks good on his baby boy. 

Graeme pulls the pink and white knee-high socks up one last time before emerging from the event dressing room to find his Dom. 

Alan groans in appreciation when he sees him. He reaches down, cupping a handful of Graeme’s pert ass, and pulling him up against his body. “You look fucking amazing. Everyone’s going to be so jealous that only I get to take you home.” 

Graeme blushes, straightening with pride at the thought of being seen on Alan’s arm. Alan looks like a knockout in his standard black skinny jeans and bare chest, and Graeme cuddles right up to him. 

They’re here to observe, not to play, but it’s fun to get all dressed up anyway, fun to let Alan lead him around as they watch various scenes. There’s a flogging scene that Graeme is especially interested in, curling up in Alan’s lap to watch, pressing the heel of his hand to his aching cock as he watches the sub get worked over. 

“Do you know how to use a flogger?” he asks Alan when the Dom and sub have gone off to the aftercare room. 

“Some. I wouldn’t want to use it full out on you without a little more training. If you hit the wrong way, the cords wrap around and can even damage organs. But I’d learn how to do it for you, and also because it’s fun to learn new stuff like that.” Alan’s smile says he’s game, that Graeme’s not pressing him into anything he wouldn’t already want to do. 

“We can put it on the list. I don’t think it’s one of the prompts, so I guess we’ll have to wait,” Graeme says with a mock sigh. 

“Again, I don’t know who you think is grading you on this challenge, but if we want to detour into flogging, far be it from me to be a stickler for the rules.” Alan’s eyes twinkle. 

Graeme gives him a mock dark look. _“I’ll_ know, Alan. And then we’ll have to redo the whole thing.” 

“Redo the whole year of having amazing sex? Oh, oh no. Whatever shall become of us?” Alan replies with mock drama.  


Graeme snorts, burying his face in Alan’s neck and pressing a kiss there. 

They’re distracted from their banter by movement in the play space. Two men walk in, one of them Clark, and Graeme has a weird moment trying to rectify Clark his boss with Clark the Dom. He doesn’t recognize the sub, but the way they touch each with familiarity, Graeme can tell they’ve played together before. 

Clark directs his sub to sit on the massage table, his back made straight by a tight corset, then turns to look at the audience. More people have joined Graeme and Alan, so he looks over the whole group. “Breath play is extremely dangerous. It can be considered a violation of safe, sane, and consensual, and as some of you know, can lead to brain damage, heart attack, and death.”

Graeme stiffens in Alan’s lap, his heart beat growing heavy, his frown intense. He’s never heard of anything in the kink scene that’s  _ actually _ dangerous, but Clark doesn’t look like he’s joking. Alan runs a comforting hand over his arm. “It’s okay, baby. The sub will be okay. Let Clark explain.” 

“The type I’m going to do will not actually trigger the brain’s euphoric response. My sub, István, however, very much enjoys the sensation of breath play. This is a way we’ve developed together that tries to make it safer. It’s not completely safe, and it won’t ever be completely safe.” Clark sits next to his sub, letting his fingers play over István’s thigh. Graeme remembers Alan saying that István and Clark have been partners for eight years. “What’s your color for moving forward, love?”

“Green. I’m ready to move forward.”

“This is about making a kink my sub enjoys accessible. I’m demonstrating, but I in no way suggest trying this at home, got it?”

Clark’s eyes meet Graeme’s, and he gives Graeme a small smile. Graeme’s reminded once again of his first impression of Clark’s kind face, those warm brown eyes seeming welcoming and authoritative. He has the same aura about him that Alan does when he’s in Dom mode. 

“The first part is in the corset. Look how lovely István is in it.” 

Indeed, the black boning against István’s skin is lovely. Graeme probably needs to reevaluate his stance on corsets for himself. 

“Right now, István is comfortable. But if I lean him forward, just a little…” Clark presses gently on István’s upper back, and István’s breath huffs out. His next breath is a little shallower, and Graeme feels his heartbeat pick up. 

It’s when his palms sweat that he realizes he’s starting to experience anxiety rather than arousal. He fights to swallow, panic starting to buzz in his ears. His throat feels like it's rejecting anything - swallowing, breathing, anything.  


Clark gently leans István back up, leading him through some deep breathing. “We take it in small increments like this. Sometimes, I add a prop to help István really feel it.” 

He pulls a rope from his bag on the floor, a nice silk one that won’t chafe badly. Alan’s used them on his arms and legs before. Clark takes it, looping it around István’s neck and tying it in a bow at the front of his neck. 

Logically, Graeme can see that it’s meant to act as a mental device for István and nothing more. The logical part of his brain can see that there’s no pressure on István’s skin, that the man isn’t wheezing, or gasping for breath, that he’s fine. 

It’s just that the logic isn’t making any headway against the panic Graeme is feeling right now. There  _ is _ wheezing, and it takes Graeme a second to realize it’s coming from him, that his throat has closed up and he can’t breathe and he’s going to die—

“Red, red, red,” he tries to choke out, his vision going woozy. He’s definitely going to die, clawing at his throat, just like— An image flashes before his eyes, one he recognizes from long ago, and his mind immediately tries to reject it, panicking even harder, if it’s that possible. 

Alan shoves his head between his knees, continuously rubbing over his back. “Breathe, Graeme. Breathe. You can breathe. You’re not dying. You’re okay. Just breathe for me, baby, please.” 

Graeme’s breath hitches on a sob, his eyes burning. He barely notices when Clark and István both stand over him, and then Clark is crouching beside him, handing Alan a bottle of water. Alan’s heart is beating wildly against his ear as he burrows into Alan’s chest, but it’s nothing compared to his own heart beat. 

Something warm wraps around him, and then he’s being carried away. He shoves his face in Alan’s neck, embarrassment chasing the heels of the anxiety in a magnifying loop that makes everything hurt. He’s still sobbing, he thinks. A part of his brain feels so, so numb, like now he’s just watching this happen from above. 

The image from before keeps flashing in his brain. Opening the door to the trailer, seeing— he can’t— every time his brain tries to go there, go further, he starts to choke like he’s the one being asphyxiated. 

“It’s okay, Graeme, sweetie, you’re okay, you’re safe, I’m here with you, I love you, you’re perfect, you’re going to be okay…” Alan keeps up this litany of praise, of soothing words, as he lays them down in the aftercare room. 

Graeme buries his head in Alan’s neck, sobbing, unable to stop himself, unable to make it all stop for anything. Alan sounds like he’s heartbroken, worried, but Graeme doesn’t know how to stop. 

Eventually, his sobs quiet down to small whimpers against Alan’s chest, his heart still pounding, his chest heaving. He feels like his entire battery reserve has been drained; he could probably fall asleep on Alan’s chest if he wasn’t feeling so embarrassed. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice raspy and nose stuffed. 

“It’s okay.” Graeme jumps, because it’s not Alan’s voice, but— he glances over quickly — István’s.

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, I ruined your scene,” Graeme manages between renewed sobs and hiccups. 

“No, really, it’s okay.” That’s the deep voice of Clark. “We wanted to make sure you were okay. I think we both would have dropped if we hadn’t come here with you.” Clark wraps an arm around István, pulling him close. 

Graeme’s fingers are tugging at Alan’s chest hair, which he barely realizes. He glances up. “Alan, are you okay?’ 

“Yeah, I’m okay, baby. Happy now that you’re calmer. You scared me a little.” It’s not an accusation, just the truth, which Graeme appreciates. 

Graeme finally notices that Alan’s cell phone is playing rain sounds. He buries his face in Alan’s neck again and cries some more — like now he’s broken, and doesn’t know how to stop. The trauma from— from his past, god, even now his mind still stutters over it— and the embarrassment of making a scene— it’s all too much for him to handle. 

He realizes, eventually, that there are three sets of hands working to soothe him from the latest jag. He shudders, turning to see István and Clark flanking him. It makes him feel better to see them here, István no longer wearing his corset, participating in this strange aftercare. “I’m sorry,” he says again, can’t keep himself from saying. 

“We accept your apology, sweetie. We just want you to be safe and happy.” Alan’s words are soft and soothing in his ear. 

“I feel so stupid, I should have— I must have— I try not to think about it.” 

“A buried trigger?” Alan asks. 

Graeme nods against his chest. “I’m so sorry, if I’d known, if I hadn’t— hadn’t repressed it, I wouldn’t have come to your scene and ruined it.” 

“Of course, baby. We know that,” István murmurs, squeezing his hand. “You have a breath play trigger?” 

“I— I guess I do.” He looks down at where their hands meet, squeezing back. “My dad— um. I told you he killed himself.” He looks back at Alan, trying to get him to read between the lines without being forced to say it aloud. 

Alan’s face clouds over for a second, and then clears. “Oh, oh baby, god. You don’t ever have to watch breath play again, okay? Absolutely not. We’ll steer wide and clear.” 

_ “Csillagom,  _ never,” István promises, his accent sounding thicker than it had the rest of the night. He takes Graeme’s hand, kissing it. 

Clark leans over and presses a kiss to Graeme’s forehead. 

Graeme yawns, unable to stop the post-attack exhaustion from hitting. “I think— I think we could go home now, Ally.” 

“How are you guys? I’ll text you tomorrow, Clark?” Alan starts to gather Graeme up. 

“Tomorrow would be great. Get some rest, okay Graeme? I’ll see you at work.” Clark pulls István into his arms, peppering kisses over his cheeks and neck as they watch Alan carry Graeme away. 

 

Graeme feels numb in the uber, and goes silent. Alan wraps an arm around him as much as he can with their seat belts on, whispering in his ear the whole trip home. Once there, Graeme insists on walking himself to the elevator, and then to their door. Unlocking it, he’s immediately greeted by the two cats, and he crumples to his knees, gathering the more-receptive-to-holding Threepio into his arms. Alan slides down the door to sit with him, looking worried. 

“I’m going to be okay, Alan, I’m just— I’m just feeling stupid and guilty about it all.” He nudges his knee against Alan’s, letting Threepio paw at his neck and drool. “I haven’t— I haven’t thought about that in a long time. I guess I didn’t know it was there.” 

“If you didn’t know it was there, then you shouldn’t feel guilty about disrupting the scene. We’ve been careful to avoid your triggers in play before, and now we’ll just add this one to the list. No watching or partaking in breath play.” 

“You make it sound so simple.”

Alan, surprisingly, smiles, his head thunking back against the front door. “It actually _is_ that simple. It’s just kink, Graeme. It’s not like we discovered you’re allergic to cats or something that would require major life changes. We’ll avoid it. No harm, no foul. It wasn’t like I was wanting to try it, anyway. We agreed to test our limits this year, and we found one, a hard and fast limit that we won’t test again. And you used your colors, which I’m really proud of, by the way. That you remembered, even in the middle of a panic attack, to use your colors. That you trust me to keep you safe.” 

“Of course I trust you.” Ever fickle, Threepio climbs from his lap and into Alan’s arms, drooling all over  _ his _ neck now. “But— I get what you mean. It’s good to know that my anxiety brain trusts you, too. And I want to work with Clarissa on this. I don’t have an appointment for another week but I’ll see if she can bump me up. It needs dealing with.” 

Alan takes his hand, kissing it gently. “If you weren’t going to suggest it, I was. But that just goes to show how much you’ve grown, baby. Doing such a good job, working on yourself, knowing yourself and your limits. I’m really proud of you.” 

The warmth in Alan’s statement burns through some of the shrouding of guilt and panic and embarrassment. It’s going to take a little while, though, Graeme can tell. “I’m not sure if I want to go to bed yet,” he whispers. “I keep seeing— him.” 

_ “The Good Place _ marathon on the couch? I’ll pop the popcorn.” 

Graeme squeezes their hands more tightly together. “I fucking love you.” 

 

Graeme’s still a little off his game when he returns to work the next evening, but he’s not going to let a little drama keep him from the restaurant. He gets started in on his routine, prepping and chopping a mountain of onions, humming along with the house music that pipes into the kitchen. 

Dan gets started in on his routine, too, of bullying Graeme with little cuts and jibes in that first hour. Graeme’s knife doesn’t hesitate, though, and his voice doesn’t jump or quaver when he answers Dan’s commands with “Yes, Chef.” 

He can’t really explain why it washes over him now. Except that maybe the reminder that Graeme has faced things much, much worse than a workplace bully and  _ survived, _ hell, is learning to  _ thrive, _ well. It’s a good way to combat it. He’s still not sure this is the sort of place, the sort of situation he wants to work in, but Dan can’t touch him, not after the life he’s had so far. 

For the first time since he started at the beginning of the summer, Graeme smiles as he juices the tiny key limes Dan likes to torture him with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How to pronounce István, who yes, is a Hungarian immigrant. :) https://youtu.be/w1v3GWIlf1I?t=176
> 
> Csillagom - 'my dear' in Hungarian


	9. Intercrural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graeme is on the road to recovery, and it turns out, so is Alan.

Time/Prompt date

| 

Prompts

| 

Notes  
  
---|---|---  
  
Late August/ October 15

| 

~~Forniphilia (Human Furniture)~~ | Overstimulation | **Intercrural Sex** |Uniforms

| 

_Are you sure you don’t want to take a break, sweetie? — A_

  


_No, it’s like — if I don’t jump right back in, I’m going to be more afraid to, if that makes sense? — G_

  


_Begrudgingly, yes. — A_

  


_But I’m not going to object to hopping back in with something as easy as intercrural. Now the real question is, your thighs or mine? I mean, I gladly offer up my thighs as tribute if you’re not ready for that, but if you are? Those thighs though. Damn, babe. Makin me drool. — G_

  


_I’ll...think about it. — A_

  


_No pressure, always. <3 — G_  
  
Alan immediately glances up from his phone when the door opens. Clarissa has a kind smile on her face, but he only has eyes for Graeme. Graeme looks — well, he looks like he always looks after an EMDR session with Clarissa: exhausted, face puffy from crying, but  _ lighter _ somehow. Like an invisible weight has been lifted from his shoulders. 

Unless they have a joint session with Clarissa, they’ve been coming alone to their own therapy appointments all summer. It just makes the most sense with their disparate schedules. But after his first EMDR session — Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, a therapy for PTSD — Graeme had come home drained, and quietly asked if Alan would come next time. 

As if Alan can deny his Graeme anything. 

He rises, holding out his hand for Graeme to take if he wants. Graeme obliges, leaning into Alan’s body as they share some small talk with Clarissa before heading out. “How’d it go?” Alan asks in the elevator, pulling Graeme’s knuckles up for a kiss. 

Graeme blows out a breath, reaching up to wipe some errant tears away. “Hard, like always. I think we’re making progress, but I don’t know. I’d have to be triggered to test it, and you’re not going to find me volunteering for  _ that _ any time soon. But I — I was able to tell Clarissa about finding him, today. In detail. Details my brain locked away.” More tears leak out. “That’s progress, I think. Cutting open the would to drain it.”

Alan gathers Graeme in his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re so strong, and I love you so much.” 

He still can’t quite get over Graeme breaking apart in his arms, desperately calling out his color and burrowing into him. He’s...maybe not past it, but that’s what his own sessions with Clarissa are for. 

Therapy nights mean comfort food, something Alan is happy to provide. Tonight, it’s reheated chicken soup, maybe not as good as Cecilia’s or Graeme’s, but Graeme doesn’t doctor it too much after he serves it up, so it can’t be so bad. 

It’s a quiet evening, just them and the cats, Graeme knitting and Alan reading aloud to him, their feet tucked up against each other on the couch. But for the exhausted look on Graeme’s face, and the cause of it, Alan could think it’s the perfect late summer night, a gentle breeze coming in off the water and through the screen door that keeps the cats from accidentally killing themselves going after a pigeon. 

He pauses in his reading, and Graeme looks up at him, expectantly. His eyes are warm, and soft, and Alan doesn’t think he could love him more, but somehow there’s always extra room in his heart. 

 

Since the incident, as Alan has taken to calling it in his head, Graeme has a certain spring in his step. It seems strange to Alan, but he’s not a mind-reader, and he knows that Graeme is working on his issues, so he just decides to enjoy it. 

It’s proven even more when, a week later, Graeme’s serving up a fancy pesto grilled cheese sandwich for a Saturday lunch, and he says matter-of-factly, with no drama or angst whatsoever, “I gave my two weeks notice last night. After that, that’ll give me two more weeks before school starts back up again. I have a pretty heavy schedule this time around.” 

Alan, surprised, takes a bite of the sandwich without thinking about it, and immediately burns the roof of his mouth on the cheese. “Shit—” he moans, blowing out of his mouth to cool down the food, and gratefully accepting the glass of ice water when Graeme hands it to him. “Well, there go my taste buds.” 

“Aww.” Graeme leans over, brushing a kiss on Alan’s forehead. “You okay?” 

Alan brushes it aside. “So, your two weeks? That went okay?” 

“It was pretty easy, actually. Imagine that.” 

“No anxiety attack?” 

Graeme sits down with his own sandwich. “Kind of crazy, but no. I knew it wasn’t the place for me, and— and I knew you’d have my back.” 

Alan rubs a hand soothingly over said back. “Damn right I do.” He lifts up the sandwich again, blowing on it this time. He hums over the bite, but it’s mostly to comfort Graeme that the food is good — he’s sure it is, but he can’t taste a damn thing anymore. 

Graeme is playing with his food, the sure sign he has something else on his mind, but Alan waits him out, taking some of the peach he’d sliced for them. 

“I was, um, thinking that maybe...we could do a scene today? Or something?” 

“Are you feeling okay with that? Do you think you’re ready?” 

“I do. I miss— I miss us.” 

Alan reaches out, taking Graeme’s hand. “You still have us, baby.” 

“I know, but. I miss the closeness.” 

“I just don’t want to trigger you again—” 

“It was never  _ you, _ Alan. And for that matter, it wasn’t Clark or István. No one’s to  _ blame.”  _

“I know,” he replies, though he’s not feeling so confident in that fact. 

“I know it’s different for you, that you don’t need it like I do, but, I just— I just miss it.” 

Alan pulls Graeme into his lap, brushing a kiss over his hair and feeding him a slice of peach. A little juice dribbles out onto Graeme’s lips, and Alan takes pleasure in kissing him clean. Graeme practically melts in his embrace, leaning into the kiss, his hand wrapping around the back of Alan’s head and pulling him closer. 

Alan’s breath is shorter, his heart beating hard, when he pulls away. “I think— I think we should do it, but I think that you should be the one doing the fucking. You have more control that way, more ability to stop without having to use your color.” 

Graeme's fingers play in Alan's hair. "I don't think I need that, Ally." 

"I think I do," Alan admits, looking down.

Graeme leans forward, kissing Alan's forehead. "I can do that, then. But, um." He gives Alan a little Cheshire smile. "Not sure I can do it without my Daddy helping me along, telling me what to do." 

Alan gives him a long look, then lets himself smile, too. "I think I can do that." 

"So I get to fuck your thighs, and you're going to talk me through it, so you can tell me how to make you happy." Graeme’s got a small grin now, absolutely incorrigible, and Alan can’t help but kiss him again. 

“Too late, you already make me happy by existing.” 

“Sap.” 

“Smartass.” 

“Nerd.” 

“Baby—” 

“Daddy—” 

Alan tilts his head, taking Graeme’s mouth roughly as Graeme’s hips roll beneath him. He’s desperate, panting, when Alan breaks away, his eyes that dark, stormy grey of a winter sky. Quickly, Alan shifts Graeme so his legs are wrapped around his waist, and carries them to the bedroom. They get there slowly, stopping every few feet so Alan can press Graeme up against the wall and devour his mouth again. 

At one of the stops, Alan nuzzles against Graeme's face. "Just to be clear, yes, I'm on board with you fucking me. I trust you." 

Graeme presses a kiss to Alan's nose. "We're going to be okay, Daddy." 

Alan looks at his sub's face, at Graeme's radiant smile, and, for the first time since the night of the incident, feels that same confidence when he says, "Yeah, we're going to be okay, baby boy." 

By the time they’re bouncing down on the bed, Graeme’s skin is flushed pink, and his pupils blown, making his eyes even darker. They race each other to get their clothes off, tugging and pulling and falling into a fit of giggles. 

This is right, though, and Alan can feel it in his bones. In his guilt, in his fear, he hadn’t touched Graeme like this in two weeks. It’s not a full blown scene, but Graeme’s right, they needed to get back to it, to not let the fear overtake them. 

“Tell me what you want,” Graeme says between gasps as Alan sucks on his neck. 

“That’s a dangerous sentence. I want so many things.” 

Graeme shivers under him, his eyes swamped with pleasure. “I want to make you happy, Daddy.” 

“I know you do, baby.” Because he can, he runs his hand down Graeme’s naked body, circling his cock as he closes his mouth over one nipple. “You make me happy already.” The nipple peaks, and he moves on to the other. “But, I guess you could fuck me.” 

_ “Daddy.” _

_God, Graeme is so fucking good at that ‘scandalized innocent’ voice. Why is that such a fucking turn on?_

“Get the lube, baby.” 

Graeme scrambles to follow his orders, face flushed and eager. While he does, Alan makes himself comfortable on his knees, letting his upper body rest on a few pillows as he sticks his ass in the air. He tenses, remembering the last time he was in this sort of position for a man, and not liking the memory at all. 

Graeme’s fingers move tentatively over his face. “Color?” he asks softly, scratching through his beard. 

Alan turns his head to look up at him, and it’s— it’s just Graeme. Just the love of his life, who will never demand anything from him just because he’s Ace. He takes a deep breath, gives Graeme a small smile, and answers. “Green, baby. Thank you for checking in. You need to make sure I’m nice and wet.” 

“Okay, Daddy.” Graeme presses a series of kisses along his spine, and one over his hole, his tongue flicking around his rim once before moving on. He kisses the insides of Alan’s thighs before he smooths the hand-warmed lube between them, rubbing and massaging over Alan’s balls, his perineum. 

“Good. Good boy. That’s perfect,” Alan manages, letting his head drop down to the pillow again. His cock is unsure what it’s doing, which is always such an awkward feeling, but he feels loved and cherished by Graeme all the same, and that’s what matters. 

Graeme moves Alan’s thighs together, testing the slickness of them with his fingers. “God, this is going to be so fucking good, Daddy. You’re so fucking built.” 

“Naughty mouth, baby boy.” Alan looks over his shoulder. “Fuck me.” 

“Now who has a naughty mouth.” He feels Graeme’s cock poking at his thighs, and then Graeme groans as he slips between them. “Oh fuck, Daddy, you feel so good.” 

Graeme doesn’t feel so bad himself, the head of his cock slotting against his perineum, then sliding against his dick. That’s pleasant, actually. “Right there, baby. Keep going, right there.” 

His fingers squeeze into the bedspread as Graeme picks up speed, nudging along his cock again and again. Between the pre-cum and the lube, the slide is easy, and Alan reaches underneath himself with one hand to stroke over their cocks. Graeme fucks into it, moaning at the extended pressure. 

“You’re doing so good, baby. Making Daddy feel so good.” 

Graeme whimpers at the praise, fucking Alan harder, his face pressing into Alan’s back. Alan strokes himself at the same pace, willing himself to come with Graeme. His body is fairly sure what it wants now, he thinks. The edge is both close and exceedingly far away. 

Shouting, biting into the skin of his back, Graeme comes, spilling over Alan’s hand as Alan continues to stroke. He collapses on Alan’s back, rubbing everywhere and pressing kisses where he’d bitten.  

Frustrated at his dick, Alan strokes harder, trying to get there now that Graeme’s done. He can’t— he can’t make it work, it’s not working, apparently it’s going to be one of  _ those _ nights, and he groans in frustration. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Daddy.” Graeme rolls them over, batting Alan’s hand away as he moves to take Alan into his mouth. 

“Ohhhh, fuuuuh—” Alan shudders at the suction Graeme’s hot mouth is making around his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re such a good little cocksucker.” 

The pop of the orgasm is like a little punch to his stomach, and he’s vaguely annoyed that he worked — well, he and Graeme worked — for something so hard with such little payoff. But then, Graeme is curling up into him, keeping him warm, and the frustration is all behind him. 

Because nothing is better than this, than his baby, here in his arms. And maybe his sexuality frustrates him sometimes, but that’s life. Life is frustrating. And lovely. And wonderful. He squeezes Graeme close to him. “I love you. You did such a good job.” 

Graeme preens under the praise, and presses a kiss to his mouth. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a crazy week this week which means pretty much from now to Thursday my posts will be going up in the morning. Enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Kudos and comments are always appreciated, especially on an original work!
> 
> Please see the tumblr for my original work: https://mhabbott.tumblr.com/  
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